Returning the Elite of Old
by RedWhiteAndBlaire
Summary: Alternate Universe. Set right before Desmond was due to be captured by Abstergo. Desmond is instead whisked away by his ancestors, living and breathing in modern time. Additional humorous fluff/family theme. No slash.
1. Capture

Rain pelted Desmond's helmet as he watched the red light before him. He grimaced behind the visor, balancing on one foot astride his motorcycle while adjusting his iPod earphones. _Dani California _droned out steadily. Having to be off the grid sucked, he wanted a smart phone instead, maybe a Bluetooth earpiece. Well, almost off the grid; driving a motorcycle required registration and ID. It was nothing, he was sure. He would just have to settle with this- maybe, he grunted a laugh as he thought about his suspicions. Even though he thought his father's isolation and paranoia was just cultish bullshit, he still found himself half-assedly scanning his surroundings. But that was all it was: bullshit. Something lingered in the back of his mind, probably just the way he was raised, that made him feel it was best to be secretive and alert. It had been years since he left the farm; there really was no reason to keep practicing those lessons.

_Screw it, _he decided. Raising the volume, he kept his iPod under his damp jacket and blissfully stopped paying attention. The car behind him honked. "Dickhead," he muttered, accelerating through the green light.

August thirty-first and it was already as cold as a whore's heart outside. Then again it was almost midnight, Desmond considered it lucky he was going home at this hour instead of bartending until three in the morning. He passed an empty lot, swirling with bits of litter as rain pooled on the pavement. The car behind him growled as it maneuvered into the other lane, lurching up to travel beside Desmond. The street was fairly empty at this hour with the current state of the weather in the city's back roads. Desmond kept on at about seven miles over the speed limit, rising about a mile per hour every few seconds carelessly. He recognized the car beside him as a dark steely blue van, besides that paid no mind to the senses urging him to glance over at it. A yellow light glared at him ten yards ahead. Desmond committed to blaze through it when the van roared to life again, cutting him off under the light as it turned red.

"The fuck man!" Desmond snapped, decelerating with a middle finger raised.

Already at thirteen miles over the speed limit, Desmond knew it was not safe to accelerate more under this weather just to get around the douchebag. That, and they were on a two-lane road; he could see the headlights of another car in the oncoming lane and knew it was a risky gamble to cross into it. The van began to slow annoyingly, as if whoever was driving had taken his foot off the gas pedal. Desmond tailgated it briefly to protest, grumbling, "Come on, come on! Way too late for this."

As Desmond was slowing to space himself safely, the van seemed to follow, flashing its tail lights. Desmond took the hint and decelerated even more, thinking the driver was being an even bigger douchebag. "Alright, you win."

The van drifted to a stop. Desmond carefully stopped behind it, feeling something off. Brain still sluggishly working, he turned toward the other lane to edge around the van. The oncoming car approached and stopped as well, forming a wall beside the van with its floodlights blinding Desmond. Walking backward on his motorcycle, Desmond decided he wouldn't be part of a mugging today, or whatever the hell these two idiots were doing. They probably were trying to find each other, he guessed, but it was strange the van had decided to cut Desmond off. He might just be an asshole, like most of the city people.

Desmond saw the doors of both vans open, a few men getting out. He spotted the unmistakable form of a gun on at least two of the figures, and immediately drove onto the sidewalk to speed away in the opposite direction. The car facing him followed on the road. A slim vehicle, it powered ahead of Desmond dangerously on the slick road. Cursing his luck, Desmond turned into the dirty lot he had passed earlier. He quickly went around a dumpster as his pursuer tried to stop in the rain without hydroplaning. Dismounting, he shoved his keys in his pocket and decided his life weighed more his guilty pleasure. He left his helmet and iPod behind, thinking the thugs might take that and be satisfied or at least stalled. Ditching his jacket in the hopes of not being recognized on foot, he fled. The headlights of the first gray-blue van came into view, turning into the lot. Desmond hauled himself over a chain link fence, scraping his stomach on the rough metal as he went.

Landing clumsily, he continued running into an alley, ironic as it was. Dear God he was out of shape. The alley should lead to his home if he took a left here...

"Damn," he swore, catching a glimpse of a gun-wielding man around the corner.

He backpedaled to turn and go the opposite direction, then a sharp electric pain coursed up his spine. Whoever tazed him ordered him not to struggle. Desmond jerked and fell to his knees, soaking his pants. The pain was like nothing he quite knew or had imagined. Admittedly he was aware of himself cowering there on the ground, and did not resist as the thug pulled up upright. A needle glinted in the corner of his vision. Faintly, a sound perforated the tension. The noise was almost like... an eagle? A dull thump sounded next, a limp arm met the ground ahead as if a man had fallen with his hand outstretched. Something like a white blur darted around the alley toward Desmond. Desmond found himself a hairsbreadth from a hooded, male face. The world moved slowly while the man brought his hand past Desmond's ear, whispering a metallic _snick! _

The man behind Desmond choked and gurgled painfully, toppling away. Desmond saw the empty, used syringe fly from the man's hand. Oddly, he felt the motivation to move then. He stupidly turned into the hooded man's arm and tried to duck under, feeling whatever was in his blood now sedating him. Hissing something at him, the man tried to grab Desmond as the blade in his other hand sliced across his shoulder. Desmond flailed, bewildered and rapidly losing consciousness. More people were approaching, firing their guns. One bullet bit into Desmond's leg and he cried out, clutching at it as the hooded man swept him behind the corner. Confusedly, he stumbled along. His captor hauled him back with both hands, Desmond fearfully looked for the knife in the man's left hand. _Christ, his finger's gone!_

"Damn it, stop!" He heard one of the approaching men shout. Before he passed out, he thought they said something strange, "Vidic said don't shoot! You'll hit subject 17!"

* * *

A throbbing headache, a stinging pain in his shoulder, and a horrible burning in his leg woke Desmond. The entirety of the pain itself was a fine how-do-you-do, waking to see a familiar white-hooded man bent over his leg with a metal object halfway into it was too much.

The pure shock of it froze him for a second. The Arab paused without looking up. "If you move, something will give."

Still reeling, Desmond fought a wave of nausea. Tersely, the man added, "And it won't be the forceps."

Desmond swallowed his sickness and cast his eyes about the room his in, anything but watching the blood ooze from his leg. He was on a narrow bed in a decent beige room, sunlight streaming through the spaces of the blinds in the window. His dirty pants lay over the lid of a hamper in the corner, along with his shirt. He realized he was only in his red boxers while the stranger picked at the hole in his calf. A clean, middleclass-man type house was not exactly the worst thing to wake up in, but still, not awfully comforting.

"What's going on," Desmond asked carefully. The stranger methodically moved his hands over Desmond's wound, flitting between gauze and bloodstained cloth. "Damn it, say something!"

The man removed the forceps entirely and gathered an adhesive bandage in his hands. Even indoors he had a hood on; seriously? Fucking creep. It was not like this hid his face entirely from Desmond, he could clearly see his prominent features enough to identify him later if he wanted to.

All he really wanted now was to be out of here, though.

Desmond tried again. "Look man, I don't know what I did but I'm sure you have the wrong guy."

"You're Desmond Miles," the stranger stated emotionlessly.

"That's dandy," Desmond muttered, exasperated. "I've never seen you before, I have no idea who you are or how you know me- _or where the fuck I am._"

"I am Altair Ibn-La'Ahad. This is where Ezio Auditore lives," he gestured toward the room. "You are among brothers."

"What are you talking about?" A lump formed in Desmond's throat.

Altair gazed intelligently at Desmond, without a hint of insanity that Desmond hoped to find, just to dehumanize the man and make the situation bearable. Anything but what he knew was true. "Assassins."

Staring at his palms, Desmond regretted his decisions. He had been a speck on the grid for only a motorcycle; and it had done him in. He was out there messing with his earphone rather than being alert and aware. He was stupid. "So my dad sent you?"

"No."

Desmond looked up, surprised.

"We have been separate from the modern creed," Altair explained, manipulating the bandage in his fingers. While working Altair's words over in his mind, Desmond was unprepared for the man to reach over and slap the bandage over his wounded leg. He yelped, drawing his knee to his chest. Continuing as if nothing had transpired, Altair said, "You know little of your ancestry or the events around you, Desmond."

"Well, update me," Desmond hissed bitterly.

Altair blinked once and turned, opening the only door in the room to leave. Desmond began to rise, grumbling, "Fine, fuck you... I'm out of here."

The door shut soundly, in a hard way that made Desmond falter. He looked back to see Altair fixating a stern, menacing glare on him. "You aren't leaving."

_Of course, here we go... _Desmond sighed inwardly, knowing there just had to be something like this to face, some string attached. "I left the farm before," he said. Fear crept into his voice despite his efforts to remain in control. "I'll do it again."

Altair narrowed his eyes at Desmond. "You are in Ezio's home now among elite Assassins. This is no farm, and you would do well not to sow animosity among your allies."

"Just tell me what the hell I'm here for."

"Tell me you're staying."

"Fine, I'm staying."

"Either tell a better lie or tell the truth."

Desmond crossed his arms, exchanging dirty looks with Altair before relenting, "I won't escape _right now_."

"Good enough," Altair muttered. "You're here to learn the ways of your ancestors, to train in our techniques so that you may combat the Templars, such as the ones who attempted to capture you earlier."

"Wait, what..."

Altair promptly left the room, locking the door behind him.

"Mother fucker," Desmond growled. He sorely got up and looked to the window. _Can't run naked, _he realized, still in his shorts. He spotted a pair of clean jeans folded by the nightstand next to a white hoodie like Altair's. He put these on and stiffly paced around the room, thinking. Who the hell were Altair or Ezio, if they weren't part of the brotherhood Desmond had left, who were they claiming to be?

At least it seemed they were on his side, or really, trying to get him on theirs. The Templars as Altair identified them had harmed him, Altair had nicked him on accident. Still, he could go off the grid again in a different location and thus under the radar, better this time. This time for sure. He would not be part of this Assassin and Templar conspiracy shit, he was too young and too absorbed in living free. Living in the Creed was too much order, too much containment. Then again, he wondered why the Templars would want _him, _or why Altair did. They must be real anal about members of the Creed, like the mafia would never let a member leave. Which meant the organizations probably did more than he paid attention to. He always thought his father was just head of the hippie house. Now the thought of this Assassin group he was affiliated with possibly being a bigger group than he thought alarmed him. What if they did do crimes or something? Most likely hackers, the van that pursued him was an Abstergo company car now that he thought back to it. His family went and pissed off a company. Like how PETA messes with big business sometimes, he guessed.

Either way, he had to get out.


	2. Staying?

**Apologies for spelling/grammar errors (I spotted two in the last chapter) I'm just churning these babies out before I lose inspiration. And because my busiest days are Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. So far spring term is good, but y'know, if you don't keep a hold on classes, college will chew you up, blow a bubble with your guts, and stick you wadded-up to the underside of a subway railing.**

* * *

Desmond liked to think he was formidable enough as a young man. Not a total wimp or dangerous enough for someone target. He barely worked out beyond jogging the scant ten feet between patrons at the far ends of the bar. But he was no pansy, of course not- he could get his hands dirty, be serious, and play a game of strategy.

He was a man, for God's sake, not the kid who left the farm and his father behind.

"Altair..." he called thinly, bumping his knuckles against the door. He sat with his back against the wall, beside it, looking pathetic. His leg hurt like hell and he was impatiently bored out of his mind. "Altair, come on!" Pressing his head to the wall, he scowled. "Fuck..."

The window was sturdy and locked, much to his displeasure, with a metal grate on the outside of it that would have been a beautiful scenic type of structure, had Desmond not decided to see it as the dirtiest, foulest thing to mess up his day thus far. How long had he been unconscious, anyway? Altair had left at least three hours ago, and since then Desmond had not heard a single sound. He had spent around three waking hours wherever "Ezio's house" was, and briefly wondered if he had been taken far away. The window only looked out from the second floor into a high lattice and brick wall. It, too, was beautiful, and went unappreciated by Desmond as it gave him no clues as to where he was. He could be clear across the country for all he knew. Altair had said this was not a farm, but it had no city noise, just birds. Perhaps Altair was just lying, because Desmond could tell he must at least be miles from a city or in a ridiculously silent place near it.

At last, he shouted, "I have to go to the bathroom!"

Silence.

Desmond swore again and thumped his head against the wall, lapsing into half-heartedly calling for Altair. An hour must have gone by when he felt his stomach growling and a pressure in his abdomen. "Aalltaaaiiiiirrr," he whined, "I have to take a piss, for real this time."

From the other side a small click sounded as the door unlocked. Desmond squinted curiously and waited. When no one entered, he doubted if the door had unlocked; maybe he just heard it in his head or something. Standing, he tried the door tentatively. Lo and behold, it was actually unlocked. Preparing a witty insult, he smoothly opened the door to an empty hallway. Even more confused, he shuffled out. To the right, the hallway had a few elegantly framed paintings and one door. To the left, the hallway stretched past several doors and opened out in the middle to what seemed like a balcony overlooking the ground floor. A dark wooden staircase invited Desmond down, a spark of hope in those warm syrup-colored steps beckoned him closer to sweet maple freedom. Maple freedom. Maple. Maple pancakes. Damn, he was hungry.

He glanced one more time to the right, as surely Altair would be nearby after unlocking the door. No one was there. Desmond shrugged a little and figured the door must have clicked open itself. He went to make his leftward exit and immediately had a face full of ruffled cloth. "Bah!" he mumbled, recoiling to face a smiling, finely dressed man leaning against the wall beside him. _How the hell did he... right, _he almost smacked his face, _Assassins._

"The bagno is that way, bambino," he said, pointing past Desmond's shoulder.

"Bahn-yo?" Desmond stared at him. "I don't speak Spanish."

"_Italiano,_" the man corrected. A darker, smugly look glittered in his eyes. "That is alright. I speak most English, but I can help and show you how to _orinare_ instead."

Offended, Desmond ground out, "No thank you," and trudged away. He entered a white, pristine bathroom and locked the door behind him. Faintly, he reminded himself locked doors would do him little good around assassins; he might as well leave it wide open with a sign indicating he was inside. As he relieved himself he found his eye drifting toward the pearly white sink. _Part of me... part of me wants to shit in it._

_No, no, I'm not that evil. _He smiled to himself though, even had a little chuckle at how it would freak out the assassins.

He flushed the toilet and opened the door to leave. The sight of Altair waiting for him on the other side made him flinch a bit. Still with that goddamn hood on indoors.

"Can I get breakfast or something now?" Desmond asked. "You left me for hours."

"Hm," Altair looked up. "Only one hour. We were talking."

Now Desmond felt crazy; it had felt like an eternity earlier. Altair had just been talking, him and that Italian guy-Ezio? Great. Fantastic. He should have kicked the door in with his injured leg and ran out while they were busy. "Yeah, cool, so..."

Altair just stared back at him, quiet and emotionless as ever, like Desmond was a stupid little kid. Finally, he raised an eyebrow. "You forgot to wash your hands."

Well, _forgot_ was giving him credit; Desmond had no intention to. But holy shit was that creepy, did that guy listen to Desmond piss, too? Geez. Desmond quickly washed his hands and walked back into the hallway, wiping his wet palms on his pants. "I guess you guys don't have poptarts here."

Altair padded silently behind him.

"Okay, bacon... Eggs... Waffles... You know, something other than the blood of your enemies," he cast a sideways glare at his stoic captor.

Grumbling to himself, he descended the stairs, wincing as his leg protested. He held the railing and made his way down easily enough with Altair warily behind him. The foyer was a pleasant sight, with black and white tiled floors and traditional wooden paneling. A calm atmosphere like molasses weighed down on Desmond despite his situation, and the hurt-like-a-bitch pain in his leg. He limped over to the kitchen, passing a larger room that looked like a living room area. A British man looked up from a table in the room, blurting out, "Why is he up?"

_Ugh, that guy sounds stiff. What's this third guy doing here? Forget it-_ he spotted the fridge and continued onward. Saliva slicked his tongue. _Food, food, food._

Altair apathetically regarded the other man. "He had to eat."

"You should have brought him something, then," the older man chastised. _Yeah, you tell him, pops, breakfast in bed is real hospitality. _"That sickly boy has a gunshot wound to the leg and a complexion paler than your hood!"

Scanning the fridge's contents, Desmond bristled. _Thanks a lot._

"Take it easy, Haytham," Ezio said in his thick accent, approaching from the other side of the house. "A little moving around will do him some good."

At least the place had decent food. Desmond busily stacked together a sandwich and a few pieces of fruit as he eavesdropped.

"He shouldn't have been shot at all," Haytham remarked disparagingly.

Altair responded calmly. "He should have been followed closer by his allies than his enemies. You got us lost."

"That was all our fault now," Ezio tried to level, "What matters is that he is secure with little injury. Connor did well to locate him quick enough."

"Leave me out of this one," a clear, younger voice said farther away.

"You can babysit him this evening if you think little of me," Altair offered.

Haytham snorted. "I already have that one over there to look after."

"If you all keep trying to drag me into the conversation, I _will _leave," the person, Connor, protested.

The tension in the air made Desmond stifle a giggle. "Now you watch your tone-"

"Bene, I will watch him for the rest of the day, then," chimed Ezio.

Altair's footsteps receded. "Very well," he said. "Be sure to unpack his wound tonight. He was still tapering off the Templar's sedative when I packed it. You'll need Connor to hold him down without painkillers. Even asleep, he cried like a little bitch when I started."

Desmond looked up, sandwich hanging from his mouth. "Huw?" he mumbled. That was the first time he heard Altair cuss, and he did not seem like the colorful type.

* * *

Somehow Desmond managed to swallow the remains of his sandwich after Altair's remark, and woozily accepted Ezio's help to the staircase. Now his legs were just jelly from the thought of what had to be done to his wound. He really had not thought about it, and realized he might need to stay here just until the injury was healed. Shit.

Desmond shrunk at the staircase, barely able to lift his leg. Ezio smiled and picked him up bridal style, reassuring him as they ascended, "Do not worry, you are in good hands."

Resigned yet ever bitter, Desmond folded his arms and huffed. "Great."

Ezio dutifully carried Desmond all the way to his bed, depositing him there gently. Desmond uttered a peeved thanks, and tried to comfortably position his throbbing leg. The scratches on his stomach still burned, and the cut in his shoulder was tender. "So... how, uh..." Desmond tried to find the right words.

"How we found you?" Ezio offered.

"No, no, I get that, but... Why me? How do you know me?"

Ezio smiled, sitting on the bed. "We are related to you, Desmond."

Desmond analyzed the familiarity in Ezio's features, knowing something was there indeed. "Like what, distant cousins?"

Chuckling, Ezio shook his head. "Something like that. Very distant."

Disappointment swirled in Desmond's tired mind. His whole body crackled with fatigue, and he had barely done anything. Besides get chased and all that. Yeah, that could be a reasonable excuse to have a sick day. "Well... I'm going to take a nap, I guess."

"Ah," Ezio nodded understandingly. All his movements were quite energetic. He got up and grabbed a pillow from by Desmond's head, pushing it under his injured leg. Desmond sat back tiredly and did not bother to voice how unnecessary it was (and how stupid it was making him feel, like he was some invalid). Ezio showed he meant no insult by it, tucking him in.

"Okay, okay," Desmond grumbled, uncomfortable by how fatherly Ezio was. He had to confess, though, Ezio did a good job; his body was comfortable. A sudden little metal noise pricked Desmond's ears and he flinched, seeing a blade sticking out of Ezio's wrist.

"Sorry!" Apologizing quickly, Ezio snapped the blade back. "I knew I put it on too tight this morning..." he adjusted the leather contraption holding the blade in place.

Still unnerved, Desmond eyed the blade. "What is that?"

Ezio beamed. "This is a hidden blade, soon enough you will wield your own."

Desmond shuddered at the thought. He would not mind stabbing his old boss perhaps, but in all honesty he did not have the stomach to wield such a weapon like they did. That ship had sailed, he was _not_ an assassin anymore and he would never become one if he had a say in the matter- which he doubted he would get.

"Rest well, bambino."

_At least he's not reading me a serial killer version of a bedtime story. _Little Red Riding Hood might be funny, killing the big bad Templar wolf. Desmond rolled over, forcing himself to close his eyes and release his breath. _The only way he could make it creepier now is if he-_

Ezio bent down and kissed Desmond's head.

_Of course. Italians._

* * *

**I tweaked it and edited a little. Better? Eh.**


	3. Ouch

**Weird humor in the last one. I was trying to be funny. Did it work? No? Yeah... I tried, man, I tried. I made Desmond a cheeky bugger. And imagining Ezio tucking in anyone was just too good to resist. Someone tucking you in with a hidden blade in his wrists just sort of gives that "Sleep tight" feel I was going for. If that mockingbird don't sing, daddy's gonna buy you a Templar ring. Anyway: Thank you to the people who have reviewed and favorited/followed the story and gave it a publicity boost. _"_**_Oh. My. God. This is perfect. I've been looking for something like this forever. Lovely. Looking forward to the next chapter."_ **ASK AND YE SHALL RECIEVE:**

* * *

Crusty saliva had accumulated in the corner of Desmond's mouth as he slept. He rubbed at it gingerly, feeling nauseas as the burning sensations in his leg wound greeted him again. Cracking an eye open, he saw Ezio entering the room with a different person, the only one Desmond had not seen yet- Connor, most likely. Desmond mumbled out a hello and tried to stuff his anxiety; he knew why they were both here. Ezio was maintaining a friendly expression, but Desmond could see the apprehension in him as well. Connor was openly interested in Desmond and scrutinized his face, tracing his facial features with a forefinger as he scanned Desmond's. The only semblance Desmond could see was Connor's father, the British man named Haytham; Connor definitely had his father's nose and brow. With his height and fit appearance, Desmond contemplated him as the strongest out of the assassins here. And he would be the one who would hold him still then, the one who looked most likely to snap Desmond's neck on accident. It would be easier than breaking a potato chip. _This is going to suck._

Desmond sat up, mentally preparing himself. "Let's get it over with."

"You are sure you will be alright?" asked Ezio, radiating sympathy. He carefully lifted the blanket from Desmond's leg, hovering a hand over the stained, ugly bandage.

With an angry huff, Desmond replied, "Yeah, I'm not going to bawl. Just be quick." _I don't even remember what Altair was talking about. I'll be fine. _Despite his own thoughts of encouragement, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when Ezio's finger grazed the edge of his bandage. _I'll be fine._

* * *

Altair sat across from Haytham in the dim light of the living room. The two leaned forward over strange texts piled on the table, a circular object haunting the pages of one stack, a triangle marking most pages of the other. Silence hung heavily between the men. Haytham shifted, locking his fingers together in a more relaxed position than Altair. Still wearing his hood in the dark, Altair rested his chin on the back of his hand, elbows on the table.

"Sounds like things are going well," Haytham mused.

Without looking up, Altair slid a paper off a stack with his thumb. "I suppose so."

"What did you expect, in his condition- why, Ezio could have sat on him to get the job done."

Altair released a sigh, relaxing slightly. "I'll admit I expected him to be hurling obscenities at least." A small smile twisted his wry lips. "I guess he's a bit stronger than I thought."

Wood squeaked sharply as Haytham rose from his chair. "I wager he's knocked unconscious. How about it?"

Altair raised a brow, attentive. "You're on."

The two climbed the stairs to the second floor in darkness, prowling into the lit hallway. Haytham's jacket rustled at its leisurely fittings, while Altair made no sound in his loose hoodie and trousers. Looking inside, they found Ezio busily pulling the last ribbons of red gauze from Desmond's leg. Connor knelt by the bedside while he watched Ezio, concealing Desmond's head from view. Desmond lay calmly enough with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

Connor saw his father in the doorway and sneered slightly. "Don't you have something more important to do?"

Without missing a beat, Haytham stated plainly, "Oh, I do, then I had to make sure you hadn't made anything worse."

"They are both fine," Ezio said cheerfully. "No cause for concern."

Altair gave a suspicious look. Almost peering around Connor, he called, "Desmond?"

In response, Desmond raised his fist, curling all but his middle finger. Connor glowered at Haytham, painting a bold picture of angst alongside Desmond.

Nodding in satisfaction, Altair shouldered his way past Haytham to leave. Haytham shrugged and followed after him, giving a nod to Ezio and an amused glance to Connor.

* * *

After the two assassins left, Connor exchanged a strange look with Ezio. They lowered their heads respectfully, Ezio patted Desmond's knee.

"We won't tell them you cried," Ezio promised.

Desmond let out his held breath in a pained gasp, tears quietly running down the sides of his face. "Th-thank you..."

"Now to pack it again, this time looser... My apologies." Empathetically, Ezio continued with care. Desmond felt as though he were being shot repeatedly every heartbeat, reliving the full pain of the gunshot as the old gauze left his wound and new, dry material scathed his raw nerves.

Connor fumed, shifting heavily near Desmond. "I am not a child," he growled. "That man is insane to think he can talk down to me like that."

"Easy, Connor," soothed Ezio, a hint of warning in his tone.

"I am over a century-!" Connor began heatedly, soon interrupted.

"_Shh_!" Ezio hissed with surprising sharpness, pausing in his work. Glancing between Connor and Desmond, he spoke seriously. "That does not matter. I hoped you had reconciled, but remember he is your father and elder either way. Respect him, set an example for young Desmond."

Connor grumbled but submitted, growing quiet again. Through his pain Desmond concealed his suspicion. A century... what? These people were crazy, just like the people back at the farm- only worse, as they seemed to handle the large scale and illegal operations, like kidnapping ex-members. Desmond tried to focus on the sound of the gauze rustling rather than the feel of it. Some vague science lesson passed through his mind, telling him something about endorphins. After enough pain, the human body released a natural painkiller, a neurotransmitter to mask the agony. Desmond guessed this was starting to occur, as he felt less pain and more upsetting discomfort. On the farm one did not learn much of academic things, only enough to be a practical Assassin and blend with the crowd. Desmond had been good at just that; being one of the normal people. All he really was then was a sheep in wolf's clothing. Thanks to his one mistake, he was here now.

_So they really mean to train me, _he thought. _They wouldn't patch a dead man's wounds. They're probably some weird splinter group off the original Creed. Shit, they're terrorists. And when they find out I'm no good at this, never will do it, that's the end of me._

"Finito!" Ezio announced proudly, stepping back to survey his handiwork. "How do you feel?"

"Great," Desmond blurted out, bolting upright. Connor sensed something amiss, eyeing him curiously. Trying to appear calmer, Desmond wiped his face and said, "Listen, uh... I'd like to... walk around a bit again, okay?"

An expression of near horror flashed across Ezio's countenance. "No! You were badly hurting earlier."

"Right, but..."

Connor sat on crossed legs, shaking his head. "No one wants to carry you back."

Ezio shot Connor a disapproving glance at his callous tone. Desmond cringed inwardly. He hated being treated like a dead weight; which he was, unfortunately. "I won't get any better lying down," he snapped. Gathering his composure, he sighed. "I'm sorry, alright, thank you both. I'm just shaken up, it's been... rough."

Ezio nodded solemnly, understanding. "I apologize as well, it... has been very quick for you. I can relate." Embracing Desmond, Ezio continued, "I will see that you have a chance to adjust."

_Adjust... _Though Ezio's words were of the utmost sympathy, and his intentions showed sincerely enough, Desmond's stomach churned. _I'm no Assassin._

Yet he still felt _connected _to this freakshow in some way. If anything, it had to be just blood ties. Just blood ties and some similar upbringings, that was all. Anyone would feel a kind of connection to their kin or such, right? Desmond watched his two assumed relatives leave, kneading the sheets with his sweaty fingers. _I'll have to sneak out, at least try to. I'm among Assassins... but I'm no Assassin._

He felt the scar over his mouth, staring at the last rays of sun trickling from his window. _I'm no Assassin._

* * *

**_Beautiful. A little shorter than the others but that's to clear up for the next chapter. I love Ezio. Alright, getting started on the next beaut, another fluffy family centered one, lickety split! Thanks for the support._**


	4. Training

**My computer decided to refresh the page. I lost about 900 words of this in the beginning and had to start over. AGUHGHGHHGH. And I just caught a virus, so it hasn't been going well... I have a giant work load this week and only until midnight on Tuesday to get it all done. I'll be busy this week, guys. All I've done is sleep and puke my brains out. Ohhh God, save my little broken body...**

* * *

Someone called Desmond's name, smoothly, caringly. He was warm, curled up in better sheets than he had felt in years, and loathe to leave his comfort.

"Desmond," Ezio tried again, touching the young man's shoulder.

Connor's voice drifted to Desmond's ears: "I wonder who he takes after."

"No Auditore sleeps so heavily."

"Altair wakes at the sound of a breeze."

Haytham coughed, stating defensively, "Deep slumber can be highly beneficial, mind you."

Connor made an annoyed noise. "You mean you would sleep all day if you could."

"I mean _you _would remain asleep even if you were being stabbed."

"We will see about that!"

Their voices grated on Desmond's ears. He raised his head with a grimace. "Can I please get five more minutes of sleep?" he pleaded.

In unison the three replied, "No."

Exhaling, Desmond dropped his head back down. "There's barely any sunlight. It's way too damn early." Being a bartender meant late shifts. Never could Desmond remember rising earlier than noon.

Connor gave him a look of pure evil. He swiftly grabbed Desmond, throwing him roughly over his shoulder. "We do not have time for this."

"Hey, asshole, I can walk!" Desmond winced, the scratches on his stomach aching with Connor's broad shoulder digging into them.

"Connor, please," urged Ezio.

Haytham folded his arms irritably. "Put him down, son."

"Hm?" Connor turned, accidentally bumping Desmond's head against the doorframe with a loud_ konk!_

"Connor!" Haytham exclaimed, bringing a hand to his face.

"What!"

Desmond held his bruised temple. "Ow, fuck..."

"Just sit him in the hallway," said Ezio.

As Desmond was raising his head again, Connor turn the opposite direction and this time, toward the edge of the open door. _Oh, shit._

* * *

Desmond woke with his face against something brittle. He slowly pushed himself up from the grass, groaning. It was full morning now, with the sun beaming down at him as he cradled his pulsating skull. He first noticed the large, open field he was in and that it was nowhere near the city. He secondly noticed Ezio crouching by his shoulder, with Connor and Haytham not far away. A silver van was parked a few yards away.

"Good morning, bambino," greeted Ezio.

If looks could kill, Desmond might admit he would be an excellent Assassin. "What the hell happened?"

"You were unconscious after Connor hit your head against the door. We brought you out here anyway."

Desmond felt the nasty knot growing on his head from the blow, cursing. "Oh sure, just a doozy." _I probably have a concussion now, thank you._

"We're only doing a bit of training today, to get you started."

_Are you fucking insane. Are you mother-fucking-insane. _Preparing to make his boundary known, he began uneasily, "Listen..."

Ezio did not hear him, instead standing with a grin. "But first," he spread his arms, "we play a game!"

Desmond squinted, wind gently blowing on his neck. "Huh?"

Pushing Desmond's head down, Ezio hopped over him, exclaiming, "Leap!"

Desmond knelt there, shivering a bit as he tried to register what had happened. "Wait..." He gazed at Ezio kneeling in front of him in confusion.

Connor came running toward him from behind like a freight train. "Head down!" he called.

With a yelp, Desmond flattened himself. Connor passed over him and did the same over Ezio, sinking to the ground in front of him. Arms crossed, Haytham watched silently from afar. Connor gestured to him, yelling indignantly, "Father!"

Haytham remained. "No."

"Come on, Haytham!" Ezio shouted.

"I do not _hop,_" the Brit declared.

Desmond paused for a moment, wondering what to do. At last, he joined in, "Come on, old man!" _Could be fun, I guess. I need to buy myself time._

Sighing, Haytham leisurely strode over. He skipped hopping and crouched in front of his son, muttering, "Go ahead, then."

Without really caring what he was doing, Desmond hopped over the three men. Once crouched, he asked, "So where's the hooded bastard?"

Ezio leapt over Desmond, saying, "Altair will return in a while, he had a bit of work to do on the way."

When it came for Haytham's turn, the man stood in a dignified way and walked to kneel in front of the line again. Connor snickered, "Cheating."

Desmond went over and started to flatten himself again, thinking. When Ezio came to crouch in front of Desmond, he sat up, explaining, "Now we make it more difficult."

Desmond's leg wound started to hurt at the thought of having to hop higher. Ezio seemed not realize the vulnerability their crotches had. They began to kneel upright instead of sitting for each new line, with Haytham indifferently walking to the front each time. At last Ezio stood, leaning forward somewhat to make the leap easier. "Alright, go."

"Ugh..." Desmond grimaced, seeing the other two men had no problem following suit. Standing back a bit for a decent start, he jogged a stride and went over the three of them, landing heavily at the end. _Easier than I thought. _Desmond allowed Ezio to fly over him, frowning when he stood tall after Haytham walked around to the front.

Ezio looked back at Desmond playfully, saying, "You can do it, bambino. One more turn."

Backing up, Desmond gestured to the others to spread apart. "Can you stand farther... yeah, okay. Here goes."

With decent room, he ran and jumped over Ezio, pushing up over his shoulders. He almost bumped into Connor, having to stand back again to get a running start for both him and Haytham. Going over Haytham, he snatched the man's hat as he went over, not wanting to hop higher to clear it. He landed breathlessly, feeling Haytham grasp his shoulder. Haytham stared down his nose at Desmond, holding out his hand. "Give that back."

Desmond sheepishly did as he was told, while Connor and Ezio leaped over them nimbly. Haytham firmly secured his hat on his head, saying, "Now this, I can do."

"That's more like it!" Ezio cheered as Haytham stood back for a running start. Desmond paled, wide-eyed.

Quickly, Ezio spun Desmond around to face forward correctly. Desmond gave a frightened noise as Haytham roughly pushed off his shoulders, soaring over him and Ezio. Facing Connor, Haytham dusted off his hands and said, "There, done."

Connor seethed. "You won't leap over me?"

"That is a terrible whining tone, Connor."

"It's because I am taller than you."

Desmond shifted his weight from either leg, checking the level of pain and weakness he had in his wounded one. The wound seemed to be healing well enough, he could run and jump without a wave of agony. He could run. As he turned, considering an escape route, he instead clipped his jaw on Altair's chin. Altair had leaned back as Desmond moved into him. Unfazed, he said, "I'm glad to see you can move unhindered."

Now with a bruised forehead and an aching jaw, Desmond snapped, "How the fuck, man? We're in an open goddamn field and you just _appeared_!"

Altair looked at him blandly. "I am skilled in such areas."

"It is good you returned in one piece," said Ezio, approaching to embrace Altair.

Smoothly stepping around him and to the side of Desmond, Altair scooped out a round object from his shoulder pack. "I had some difficulty crossing the river."

Altair turned the golden sphere over in his hands, setting off a strange glow. Desmond's vision shivered and changed, with new hues appearing to overshadow others. Confused, he asked, "What are you doing?"

"For the sake of practice, I am tampering with your eagle vision. Tell me who is blue."

Desmond rubbed his face, all kinds of questions speeding through his mind. "Slow down here, friend..."

"Pull yourself together."

Quelling under Altair's sharp tone, Desmond relented. This was not what he was expecting at all. Now he was hallucinating. Things were becoming far too ludicrous for him, but he could not very well turn and run now. Not with the four of them closed around him. Damn it. "Alright..." Desmond narrowed his eyes. "Ezio is blue."

"And the others?"

"Connor is white, Haytham is yellow, you are red."

"Good. White indicates information, blue are allies, yellow are targets, red are enemies."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Sounds accurate, now what _is _that thing and how are you doing that?"

"It is an ancestral ability. This object is a piece of Eden, an Apple. Never mind it for now." Moving the object in his hands again, the glow and colors ceased. "Use eagle vision on your own."

"Fucking crazy shit..." Desmond swore under his breath, pacing.

Ezio anxiously looked between them, saying, "Altair, he might not understand it so soon."

"Maybe," Altair shrugged. "We have little time either way. He must grasp it today or never."

"Perhaps informing him would help?" mused Haytham.

"That would compromise our work."

Desmond focused his eyes, blinking. "Hey, I think I have it!"

"See?" Altair gestured to him. "He caught on."

Ezio folded his hands behind his head, exhaling. "I know, but it is all very quick. I am concerned for his sanity."

Altair set his mouth in a straight line. "He has clear composure and soundness of mind. I do not doubt that for an instant."

Desmond gazed around in awe with his new sight. Seeing things in a refocused, strange light was mesmerizing to an extent. He felt some other urge now, as if an instinct was coming back to him.

"Fine, but-"

"Desmond!" Haytham shouted. "What are you doing? Get off the car!"

Perching on the highest point of the van, Desmond glanced over his shoulder, calling back wonderously, "I have no idea, I think I'm synchronizing a viewpoint!"

Altair stared back at Ezio. He pulled his hood farther over his face, growling, "Don't."

Ezio smiled behind his hand, chuckling, "Well, this is why we agreed on an open field." They watched as Haytham tried to get him down, with Connor doubled over in laughter. "No heights."

* * *

**Look at all that dialogue. Look. At all. That. Dialogue. Took me a while due to illness and general shit to do, but behold! Yeah, I'm going to slaughter the concept of the pieces of Eden. I'm sorry. I never really understood them in the game and when I tried to read about them in the wiki, I was even more confused. So I'm AU-ing this bitch like it's a season premier of Doctor Who.**


	5. Assassin

**Thank you to Whitefox8431, Pasta, IAmOneMagicVortex, black dragon, What'IsGreat, D, young heroes, for the reviews and all you lovelies who fave'd and followed. For ****_young heroes, _**_"__Yes...YES... you updated!"_** *Puts on shades* I _always _deliver:**

* * *

Two days passed with relative ease for Desmond. His wound no longer needed packing, and he began to walk around the house more as a member of the group than as a prisoner. As much as he was loathe to admit it, he was becoming interested. He promised himself he would never be an Assassin, told himself the cost, and yet... he was drifting closer to his roots. They were brothers; they were family. He left his family before and turned his back on the Creed then, why was it hard now? Nothing had changed in him, had it? He had grown a bit, sure, but that should not mean he was any more of an Assassin now than before. In fact he should be less. Either way he would not have the freedom he wanted; if he did manage to go back to his life in the city, he would always need to keep off the grid. Desmond would always be part of the system somehow, between Templars and Assassins, either on one side or avoiding both. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense to have one of those sides as an ally. For now he would humor the Assassins and play along. He was still resistant about allowing himself to become entangled.

But it was too much _fun._

Currently he was on the roof, balancing himself while watching the afternoon sky. He could feel the instincts in him, telling him where to put his feet and sorting his senses. He watched the clouds, clotting into all sorts of shapes as the wind blew strongly. Desmond wanted to believe this was all there was to being an Assassin, and if it was, he could be happy. Well, besides two days ago, when he leaped off the car and Ezio remarked, "You have faith, you lack wisdom." That was a bit embarrassing, how strong the urges could be sometimes, as if he was hallucinating in the body of someone else. At the moment he wanted to pleasantly watch the sky go by and take a break. The reality of the situation was that Altair and Haytham were trying to find him to give him a hidden blade. He had overhead them while showering, promptly slipped into his old clothes (acceptable since washed, besides the bullet hole), and crept out the leftward hallway window. Oddly he knew that they knew he knew. In other words, they let him slip away. It was a double-edger; they probably were confident they could catch him if he tried to escape, and believed he would not _choose _to escape. To top it off it was another shit test between them; what they would put up with versus what Desmond would dish out. Swinging his legs over the side of the roof, sunlight warming his bare arms, he thought about how far he wanted to push. He heard someone coming up the other side of the building, and saw Connor approaching.

Connor gave a brief wave, sitting down by Desmond. "Haytham is looking for me, too," he explained.

"You two don't get along real well."

"Not really," Connor leaned back, gazing at the clouds with a distant, somber expression. "We both messed up."

"Yeah?" Desmond traced the fingers of one hand with his thumb. He felt sad at first when the memories of his father came, then rejected it, picking up anger instead. He bit a harsh tone, more to himself than to Connor, "I know what you mean."

Looking at Desmond seriously, Connor asked, "Is your father alive?"

"I guess," he huffed. "I don't care." Saying it out loud failed to make him believe it.

Connor looked away with a nod. "I thought like that for a long time. Once I saw him again, things... changed. Not much," he added quickly, "but it's different."

They both heard movement nearby. Connor tapped Desmond's shoulder, beckoning him to follow. Creeping along the edge, Desmond followed Connor to the brick wall by his window. Skillfully, Connor climbed down the side of the house and the wall. Desmond cautiously did the same, slower. As they went, Connor asked quietly, "What about your mother?"

Desmond faltered, almost losing his foothold over the metal grate. "I could care less about my dad..." He would not say it. He could not. She was the only one he cared about and her cries for him to return still gave him a twinge of guilt. Then again, there was emotional distance there. She had seemed crazy to him then, and all too comfortable with how cold and bastardly his father was. The man was his dad for fuck's sake, and her husband, how could she ignore him ignoring them? She deserved better, and so did Desmond. He hoped she would leave, but knowing what he did now, he realized it would have turned badly for her. Still, he did not regret himself leaving.

"You mean couldn't care less."

Jolted from his reverie, Desmond glanced down. "Huh?"

"It means you could not care less than you do because you do not care at all."

Wincing a bit, Desmond clambered down. "That's a bit wise for you," he smirked.

Connor rubbed the back of his neck, walking to the wall's shadow. "I heard it from my father."

They could hear Haytham and Altair calling. Desmond strode along the wall with Connor, climbing over a garden gate and into dense overgrowth. Sitting in the tall weeds, the two relaxed in silence for a while.

"So where am I, exactly?" asked Desmond. "Still in America, or...?"

"Florence, or Firenze is what Ezio calls it."

"Ah," he grunted. _Well, that's far. _"If you're all not part of the modern Creed, then... What, you have your own group?"

Connor shrugged. "I don't know what to say. We were all in Abstergo recently."

"Wait, you're Templar defectors? Double-agents?"

Connor was more perplexed himself. "My father was a Templar, he seems to be on our side now, only because the current Templars aren't to his liking."

"But the rest of you?" Desmond leaned forward anxiously.

"We-"

"There you are!" Ezio exclaimed.

Strong hands grabbed Desmond, lifting him out of the underbrush like a pup. Ezio held him up, smiling mischievously.

_Play it cool, Desmond, play it cool. _"Hi."

Ezio plopped him on the other side of the fence, saying, "You might want to think about keeping your voice down when you're hiding."

"I wasn't hiding, I was hanging out with Connor."

"In a hiding place."

"As good a place as any other."

Haytham and Connor met on the other side of the fence as well. Altair passed by, giving Connor a look Desmond could not see. Haytham was pushing his face into Connor's, snarling something lowly. Seeing Altair come with the extra blade in hand, Desmond stood and backed away a bit, holding a defiant posture.

"Ezio is the kind to play games," Altair said firmly. "I am not. Put it on."

"I'm not an Assassin anymore." Even as Desmond said it, he felt himself leaning to their side. He had little choice in the matter, but it did occur to him he might have a better life away from both sides outside his original country. Here in Florence, he could start again. He would have to learn the language, but English was popular at least. He was not about to give up on living free now.

"You will be now."

Desmond shook his head. "No I won't. I will not kill people."

"What reason do you have?" Altair challenged.

_Shit. _Desmond found himself groping blindly for a sufficient answer, suddenly realizing his own barely held weight. "That I don't need to be part of this at all. I want to live a normal life as a civilian, not with any blood on my hands."

"We all might have wanted that as well. Yet you and I were born into the conflict, Desmond. We cannot stand idly by. Where would you go, what would you do? The Templars would capture you and use you against your brothers." Pointing to the horizon, he continued, "Where the Abstergo Templars would have taken you is here in Italy. We are familiar with this area, you are not, inevitably you would not succeed in maintaining cover."

"You're giving me a real fucked up choice either way!" Desmond snapped. "I think I might take my chances rather than volunteer. If the Brotherhood already has you four, you don't need me. I have nothing for the Templars to take."

"You do," Ezio said, joining Altair's strict tone.

"It is already dangerous enough for all of us to be with you in one place, Desmond. Let go of your selfishness for the good of humanity."

"_What is it_?" Desmond hissed, coming to the end of his tether. "What is it you are all fighting for? Why the fuck do I matter to either the Templars or the Assassins?"

Altair became silent, glowering at Desmond. Haytham approached, speaking in measured tones, "The Templars and Assassins have been trying to secure the Pieces of Eden. They are powerful artifacts such as the Apple Altair possesses, among these are Pieces that hold the world together at its foundations. Those Pieces must be left alone, protected. While we both seek to understand these artifacts of the First Civilization, neither side at the moment is going about it well."

"Specifically the Templars," huffed Connor.

Haytham glanced at his son hollowly. "Yes, specifically Abstergo Templars in current time."

"They are warning us of some disaster," Ezio explained, "we need to know what it is and how to prevent it."

"And that is all you need to know," said Altair, before any further information could be offered to Desmond's attentive ears.

It was true, Desmond had seen the Apple work and its effects on him were very real, but as for the entire plot... Disbelief told him to turn away. A desire to learn more spurred him on. "So like I said, why _me_? How are we related?"

"Damn your sense of entitlement!" Altair scowled. "You need to join this cause because you see it is right, not because of us. In my day a novice would never receive a hidden blade."

Desmond waited a second to think, setting his features calmly. He extended his hand to accept the hidden blade, saying, "Alright, I'm in."

Ezio grinned and clapped Desmond on the back joyfully, congratulating him verbosely. Haytham inclined his head approvingly while Connor smiled back. Altair fixed the blade to Desmond's arm. They clasped each other's wrists for a moment in a brotherly seal, locking flinty gazes. The hype around Desmond felt alien. He murmured thanks and a string of phrases to respond, then left, explaining he had to change his clothes after they were dirtied. A cluster of stickers and patches of dirt coated him, from his antics alongside Connor. He ascended the staircase easily, without pain from his leg, and stopped by the laundry room to grab the hoodie and pants Altair had given him his first day. The fabric of the hooded sweater was a clean gray, thick to prevent the cold wind from nipping him, and the trousers an acceptable dark denim with extra pockets down the leg. Changing into these, he listened to the Assassins downstairs moving and talking, fixing lunch for themselves. Ezio was probably making Desmond some delicious monstrosity of a sandwich, piled with meat and cheese. Shrugging on his hood, Desmond went to the hallway window and climbed out to the roof again. Stepping lightly between the tiles, he crossed to the other side and went down the path Connor had, instead clambering over to the other side of the brick wall. He slid down and lingered for a moment, flicking the blade on his wrist in and out. The top of the house showed over the top of the wall, forming the silhouette of an arrowhead. Desmond turned and walked away.

"I'm not crazy like you," he whispered, "and I'm no Assassin."

* * *

**Do I deliver or do I not deliver, because this sure as hell ain't DiGiorno's! Really now, I need to get started on the rest of the week's work. I have a quiz and about 50 questions to get done with before Tuesday night, and study for my big psych test Thursday (my God, I only get about two days to study ;w; please don't all be blank answer, please don't all be blank answer...) Good news is my other tests are actually next week, so it's a bit easier now to deal with at least. I'm still stressed as everythin'. Anyway, I really liked the idea of the POE shown in Rogue, so I'm going more on that. And because I supremely hate-loathe-scorn that bitch Juno for obvious reasons, those of you who finished AC III catch my drift.**


	6. Runaway

**Did you notice I'm going in reverse? I'm showing the POE plot before the ancestral one. Get it, because in the game, it... you... WooooOOOoooOOO motherfuckerrrrsss! *Cough* Alright, also notice the differences with how Desmond remembers himself at the farm, and how he is now with his ancestors. At this point he still doesn't really know what the Templar side is about, how they differ from the Assassins. Haytham explained the POE, but as far as Desmond is concerned, it's still just talk. It doesn't affect him directly, or show him anything in particular. In the game Desmond needed to be in the Animus experiencing his ancestors' memories for a while before he chose the Assassin side again, he was practically forced into it. He's not the type to learn with words. USE YOUR WORDS, DESMOND.**

* * *

Nightfall came, and Desmond saw no sign of the Assassins. He jogged along the road for a while, once he found it, and then crossed a few fields. In an hour, he was confident he would reach a metropolitan area. He had to head northward as far as he could tell (north or south? The sun rose in the east and set in the west, right?) to even see it over the hills. At least he was not as far as he thought. Staying in sight of the road, he traveled along it for about a half hour more. The landscape was beautiful; green and lush, not like the South Dakota desert his birth home was. His old shoes scuffed along the soft dirt, his footsteps becoming heavier as he tired. The thrill of leaving and being free once more was enough to get him this far, yet he had to admit he still was not very fit. As he came up to another line of trees, his vision glimmered. _Eagle vision? _he wondered, walking. His environment shifted somewhat, phantom shapes passing him by. By the tree Desmond recognized the ghostly shape of a deer. The tree itself seemed to have a blurry shape imposed over it, a similar tree. A clearer figure ran toward the tree. _Connor? _Desmond watched the figure climb up to the fork and wait before jumping down, slaying the deer with a hidden blade. He blinked, and the shapes dissolved. _Great, the hallucinations are worse._

_But I wonder..._

Desmond followed the motions his vision of Connor had made. Smoothly, he scaled up to the fork of the tree, gazing down twelve feet. Previously he would have doubted he was capable of accomplishing such a feat with as much ease. Impressed with himself, he spotted a small vehicle and decided to attempt hitching a ride. Dropping down, he stretched and assumed a casual pace by the road. _A quiet night, a calm sky, this is pretty good._ As he walked, shapes shifted around him again, this time when he looked down he could see Ezio's hands. _Goddamn it._

The car slowed as the driver saw Desmond, reducing its high beams. Desmond waved at it, hoping the visions would disperse soon. An old man stopped, peering at him curiously. "Che cosa?" asked the driver.

"I need a ride, please, just as far as you can to a town or station," he replied.

The driver nodded and gestured for him to get in the backseat. Desmond thanked him and entered, as he sat realizing he had answered and thanked the man in Italian, yet thought it in English. Running a hand over his face, he sighed and closed his eyes. He just needed sleep and a snack. Things were all out of sorts, he would be fine after a break. Though the hallucinations were worrying... What had the Assassins done to him?

After a few minutes, the old man reached a weathered pub, some ways off from the closer town. Desmond knew a pub when he saw one, even if it was in Italy. The building was coated in a fading red paint with various posters and signs on its outer walls, with dim light from the inside. Halting by it, the driver looked to Desmond and said, "Prendersi cura di se stessi."

"I will," said Desmond, exiting. _How did I know he told me to take care of myself... Wasn't there some bullshit studies about kids learning languages in their sleep? Oh God, Ezio's been talking to me while I sleep. _The thought was creepy, but somewhat endearing if Desmond considered Ezio calmly sitting by and trying to comfort him, not standing over his sleeping body muttering things like he initially feared. _Or it's something to do with the... never mind, that's stupid._

Desmond entered the pub. Low volumes of music played from speakers overhead, giving the place an even more subdued feel. It was no Bad Weather joint like Desmond had worked at before, but it was nicer in respect to the atmosphere. The bar was clean, the booths against the wall were old but in decent condition. A few old men sat at the bar, one coarse woman at a booth read a book while she picked at a salad. Two younger men and a teenage girl walked around the bar, one of the men brushed past Desmond to leave while the other took another drink. The girl gathered her hair into a messy ponytail and began to wipe down the unused end of the bar. Desmond approached the bartender, an oily gentleman, if there was any work available for him.

"A bit late to be looking for work, son," the man replied in Italian, without hostility.

Shrugging, Desmond responded in the same language, "I'm a night owl. I've been a bartender for a few years, the hours stuck with me."

"Yeah?" The man raised his eyebrows. "Go help my daughter Celeste, wait until after we close and then talk to me."

"Thanks." Respectfully, Desmond approached the girl. "Hi miss, your father there told me to come help you."

The brunette beamed. "Oh, thank you!" She gave him a shot glass to clean and added eagerly, "Hold on, let me get you a drink of water- you look thirsty."

Desmond thanked her and relaxed, scrubbing rhythmically at the glass as he watched the small television in the corner of the pub. Apparently the weather would be stormy for the week, with temperatures dropping due to winter approaching. How could he _read_ in Italian, too? Concentration waning, he barely noticed one of the younger men join him.

"Thank God it's Friday, huh," said the man, in English.

Taken aback somewhat, Desmond paused, looking at the speaker for a moment. His hair was blonde, age no older than forty and no younger than twenty-five, and he had a few piercings. Guessing he was a fellow American, Desmond replied, "Yeah, except the weather won't get any better."

Cradling his drink, the man made a face, muttering, "To hell with the weather, stay indoors." He looked back at Desmond interestingly. "What're you up tonight for?"

The adolescent girl hurried back, tipping water on Desmond as she handed him the glass. He waved it off, even though she apologized profusely as she scrambled back for a towel. Looking back at the man, Desmond answered, "Um- I've been a bartender for a few years, just a habit."

"Not really a place to be bartending at," the man frowned.

Desmond bristled slightly, becoming uncomfortable at the man's interest. "Yeah? You don't look in the right place."

A smile spread over the man's lips. "You don't look like an angel either, scarface. I'm saying if you're looking for work as a bartender, you're better off in the town up the road, not here, man. It's tacky. Come on," he raised his hands, giving Desmond an imploring expression, "we could use a bilingual guy like you over where I work."

_He has a point_. "Sure, where's that?"

"North Star, 'bout fifteen minute drive from here. Fuck it, I'll drive you, it's still not midnight yet." The man set his drink down and began to leave.

Desmond found himself tripping after him, still travel-weary. "Hey, what's your name?"

The man slowed thoughtfully outside, ambling toward a gray sports car. "Right, shit- forgot to get yours."

Put off by how aloof the guy was, Desmond glared at the back of his head. "Daniel."

"Pfft!" The guy snorted with laughter, unlocking his car. "That's my name."

Desmond climbed into the passenger seat, a bit more at ease. "Alright, so what can I call you?"

The man slammed his door getting in, starting the car swiftly. "Doesn't matter, call me by my last name, then; Cross."

Desmond sat back comfortably. This was a nice car. "Do you care if I don't have an ID?"

"You look twenty-one to anybody with half a brain cell. What, aren't you?" Cross drove onto the road, speeding as he went.

"I'm twenty-five."

"Yeah, figured."

The dark hills and trees swept by as Cross accelerated well over fifty miles and hour. Desmond saw the road to the town, waited for Cross to slow, and instead watched the turn pass them by.

"Since we're kind of best friends and all now, buddy," Cross chuckled, "how about I call you Desmond?"

A chill crept into his bones. Instinctively, Desmond flicked his wrist, extending the blade out of sight. When he looked toward Cross, he found the barrel of a handgun greeting him. Cross tossed an exasperated glance at him.

"Oh, come on," he drawled. "It's 2012 and you're running around with a little knife. And stranger danger, ring a bell? God, you're fucking stupid."

Desmond glared at Cross. "You're a Templar."

Cross turned to give Desmond an extraordinarily unentertained expression. "Good job, I'll give you a biscuit later."

"How the hell-"

"Lucky shot." Cross laid the gun in his lap to drive with both hands, continuing casually. "I had your ass in New York! Then Altair ruined it and I thought you were long gone. But look at that, here you are, about a mile from Abstergo. That's real sweet of you. You even got in the car, I mean, I should have offered you puppies or candy and you'd probably get in the trunk, dumbfuck."

Desmond made to grab the gun, instead getting an elbow to his nose. He gasped and clutched his bleeding face, cursing at Cross and fumbling with the door.

"Seriously, don't start shit with me at eighty miles an hour. You want to die? Do you? That's how you fucking die."

"Christ, you're _all _insane," Desmond growled. So much for thinking the Templars might be more orderly, just a business the Assassins were terrorizing. If they had operatives like this, they were about as batshit as the rest of the Assassins. The weight of his actions weighed on Desmond. If the Assassins knew he was missing by now, they would be out trying to find him. Desmond doubted they would be able to track him by car; the trail would run cold after the pub. Though if Cross was successful, they would know where he was.

He would be in Abstergo's headquarters.

* * *

**Boo! Hiss! Weak sauce!**

**I wanted to whip up something to cool off after today's quizzes. I did well on one, the other I received a 3 out of 4 (ARGH!). Daniel Cross is going to be fun to work with. I read his bio and realized he was much cooler than the game let you see in the main story; the feature details and comics reveal a lot. He's a cool guy. Screwy with the brewy but hey-o.**


	7. Abstergo

**Yeah, sorry if Desmond comes off too naïve as I write him. It was established with his screw up over the motorcycle that he wasn't the brightest crayon in the box about stranger relationships, in the game he's pretty much a pushover most of the time also. He isn't the quickest learner either. Don't worry, I'm gonna fix him good. Let us continue and shed many tears.**

* * *

"Are we there yet?" Desmond huffed, pressing his face against the cold passenger window.

The car braked suddenly, jerking Desmond forward. He pushed his feet into the floor, saving himself from flying forward. Cross sped up again, sneering, "I'll kick you out when we're there."

Smirking, Desmond crossed his arms and sat back. "'Kay, I'm bored."

"I'm so sorry," Cross tapped his temple with the gun as if chastising himself for forgetting. "I should have brought a book or something to hit you with."

"You're a jerk," Desmond stated, bristling. "How'd a guy like you end up finding me in New York, anyway?"

"Guy like me?" Cross tilted his head. "Huh. You don't get the visions?"

Biting his lip, Desmond turned away from Cross. The amount of information everyone else seemed to know was irritating. Other people had these visions? Did Cross see the same things Desmond did? Why were they of Connor and Ezio? Desmond was out of a loop, and he wanted in. Well, he left to stay out of it. He was not sure what he wanted, other than being out of this car and away from this lunatic.

Cross grinned, smugly observing, "So you do. Guys like you and me are freaks, get over yourself."

"Funny," snorted Desmond. "I thought I was pretty special if the Templars wanted me so badly."

"You're special... like window-licker special."

"Thanks." Desmond put his feet on the dashboard, glaring at Cross. "So what's up with the visions- what does it mean?"

Inclining his head, Cross sighed. "Don't ask me, you'll find out. Or not, you know if you're an ass there we'll just knock you out."

_This is unproductive, _thought Desmond, disappointed. "How about telling me more about the Templars?"

"Do you want to join?"

"No."

"Then shut the fuck up, I need to make a phone call." Cross pulled out his cellphone, still over the speed limit in the metropolitan area now.

Desmond gazed out the window. The buildings around him grew in height as they traveled; apartment complexes, bakeries, parking garages, and various stores. A water fountain as big as a stadium stretched ahead, lit at intervals with purple and blue lights. Florence was a beautiful place. Yet for Desmond it was an alien and terrifying area of captivity. Glancing over, Cross was still keeping an eye on him.

Someone was talking on the other end, a pompous prick if Desmond could hear correctly, talking like he was lord of the universe. Absorbed in stressed thoughts of escape, Desmond did not catch what Cross said until he responded to the guy on the phone, "Huh? No, he's conscious. Here," he shoved the phone at Desmond, "say hi."

"What?" Desmond stared at him. He tried to read the ID on the phone; the damn thing was in Russian.

"_Ah, hello, Mr. Miles_!" the stranger greeted. Desmond was right: the guy sounded way too pleased with himself to be an ordinary or non-prick person.

"Uhh..."

"_I'm sure you have many questions, Mr. Miles, soon all will be answered." _He sounded as if he might start laughing. Desmond uncomfortably looked ahead, watching as they neared a busier street. Nice cars belonging to nighttime partiers circulated through the roads. An idea occurred to Desmond. He looked back at Cross as he took the phone away.

Cross brought the phone back to his ear. "Right, I'm about to hit traffic, maybe send some guys out to clear the street for me. Yeah, I have it covered, the kid's barely- ugh, hold on."

Desmond had inclined his chair backward and turned himself around, rummaging in the backseat. There were empty Vodka bottles, a small cylinder of Jack Daniel's, a thick leather bag, some wrappers, and... "What's this?" Jiggling an orange container of pills, Desmond raised an eyebrow at Cross.

Scowling darkly, Cross started to slow along the road, setting the phone down to grab his gun. "You put that back and sit your ass down."

"This says not to drink with it," Desmond read, squinting in the dim light.

Cross became angrier. "I know, put it back!"

Passive, Desmond tossed the container, showing his empty hands to Cross. "Okay, okay, chill."

Sending a quick prayer, Desmond hoped the car was slowed enough. As he was sitting back down, he kicked Cross's hand into the door, smashing it between his shoe and the gun Cross held. Cross recoiled, snarling at him. Desmond hit the unlocking switch on the door and lurched out backwards onto the pavement. Rolling, he bounced painfully to his feet and dashed for the nearest clear route. He chanced a look behind him, seeing Cross in hot pursuit. _Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck am I supposed to..._

His surroundings shifted again. The humbly aged buildings began to look newer, in a different light. The phantom of a woman limped in front of him, shouting, "_Hurry!_"

Desmond found himself following her toward a storefront, climbing up the window. He saw Ezio's hands again, ghostly imposed over his own. Swallowing his anxiety, he scaled the building quickly, outmaneuvering Cross. On the roof he continued running with newfound sleight, balancing along the grooves and edges of the structure. The shadows shifted and dissipated as quickly as they had come. "Wait!" he called. "Damn it."

Cross had gotten up the roof opposite him somehow, shouting at him now. Desmond cringed and skidded to a halt. The parking garage stood nearby, fully lit. Desmond spotted a canal twelve feet from the building he stood on. As cold as the night was, he swiftly leapt from the roof, diving into the water successfully. He scrambled out like a wet cat, gasping and dripping. Cross was moving elsewhere, coming down to the ground level again. Desmond hauled himself up and ran on to the garage, water squelching in his shoes. Chilled, he tried to wring out some water from his hoodie as he went, all in vain. He was wet and cold, the worst of two combinations. Hot and dry was more bearable than this. In the garage, at least, there was little wind. He hurried to a row of cars and dove between two, crouching low as he listened for Cross. For a moment, all he could hear was his panicked, unaccustomed heart exasperated with effort, and the gentle, familiar noise of traffic some distance away. Desmond peered under the vehicles, seeing a pair of boots stepping into the pale yellow light.

"He-ey," Cross cooed. "They're already coming, and you will be surrounded. Come on, Desmond, have some dignity..."

Slowly, Desmond crawled under the van behind him, seeking to move into the next row over and advance to the upper level unseen. Grime stuck to his previously clean, dry clothes. If Cross looked, he might find a damp trail leading to Desmond.

"... Not like those Assassins from your home."

Desmond paused, his palms pressing against the cold, dirty concrete.

Cross continued, leisurely, his voice closer with each step. "Yeah, after I found you I was able to trace your steps back to your family. Nice place, burned well."

Red stained the gritty floor as Desmond's knuckles scraped across it. He held his fist to the ground, forcing himself not to shout. _Fucking bastard!_

"But I guess you don't care about what happened to them. You're almost the only Assassin left now, pal."

Desmond crept out from under the vehicle, preparing to run across to the upper level. Inside him an abysmal depression told him to give up. He refused, pushing himself upright to go. A hand closed on his shoulder, dragging him back. Cross slammed him into the back of a Mercedes, causing the alarm to react. Over the obnoxious beeping, he yelled, "Gotcha!"

Struggling, Desmond spat in his face and stepped away only briefly. Cross advanced on him and suddenly changed expression, confused. As if in pain, he touched his head, growling, "Yebat'..."

"What..." Desmond backed away. _He's speaking Russian?_

"Poluchit' loshadey!" Cross yelled, shaking his head. "Gde moye oruzhiye?"

Bolting around Cross, Desmond headed for the exit of the garage. Cross had not been bluffing; there were Abstergo vans outside, with uniformed employees much like the ones who had attempted to capture Desmond days ago. The car alarm still wailed, alongside Cross's Russian shrieking. Everyone within a mile could likely guess Desmond's location. Frozen briefly and still dripping wet, Desmond stared at a short Abstergo employee taking aim at him.

"Down!" the man gestured.

Desmond blinked, looking between Cross having some kind of nervous breakdown behind him and the Abstergo people closing in at his front. They could shoot him if he ran now, up the ramp to the second level. His legs were shivering with weariness and cold, he doubted he could even make the run without being shot at. _I failed, _he realized. _I've been failing, I've been doing this on purpose for the past nine years. God, I'd take it all back._

The men reached Desmond, pulling his hands behind him as they tied a blindfold over his eyes. Someone approached Cross warily, asking if he was hurt; Cross shouted something and Desmond heard the person scream in terror, cut off by a thump and another car alarm going off. A woman nearby told her comrades to have caution, saying, "Do not touch Daniel, he's suffering the bleeding effect! Louie, get Dr. Sung on the phone. Yes, tell her he's fucking doing it again."

Desmond somberly went along, his head pushed down. If he had been prepared, if he had stayed with the Assassins at home; not just his second chance with Altair and the others, but if he had not left the farm... He would have the training he had then, all the speed, strength, and agility his father pounded into him. It was all so annoying and seemed unnecessary then. Hardship was pointless without understanding. Only for so little a time could he have belief without understanding. That was all for nothing anyway; he could look forward to some answers, at least, and stop running.

Such bullshit.

He would never stop running. Thank Newton, an object in motion indeed stays in motion, and his mind had not yet stopped turning gears. Desmond pivoted and sank his hidden blade into the middle of the man holding his left side, bringing his arm back to elbow the man on his right. Tearing off the blindfold, he began running. He was immediately intercepted in the crowd of Abstergo employees, wrestling him as they tried to disable the blade on his arm. There was a small sound, a familiar one in the night over the din of the cars and rivals; an eagle. Beside him a pair of blades appeared, jutting from the throats of two men. Behind him a weight plummeted down onto an officer, knocking the weapon from his hands. In the thick of the melee, Ezio took Desmond by the hood and pulled him out. Altair cleared a path, rabbiting deftly between blows. Throwing a smoke bomb on the ground, Ezio turned Desmond around and practically dragged him from the scene.

"You didn't have to come back!" Desmond grunted, fighting to stay apace.

Altair struck Desmond's back, saying, "We did, you fool."

The three approached the canal Desmond had leapt into earlier. Across the street the silver van waited, hastily parked on a curb. Its headlights glimmered like a lighthouse in a storm. Desmond jumped across before Ezio, using a low post to advance. Altair strangely went farther up the side to take a narrow bridge across, wasting time. Following, Ezio touched Desmond's shoulder and assured, "We wouldn't leave family behind."

As Desmond glanced back to thank him in response, he heard the shot. He saw the surprise on Ezio's face. Red blossomed over the man's right shoulder like a watery rose on parchment. He fell backward almost soundlessly, without a cry of pain. Desmond reached back for him, yelling. Ezio landed in the canal, lips parted in a small smile. Altair's arm looped around Desmond's chest, hauling him away.

"Stop, we came for you!" hissed Altair.

The van pulled up nearer to them, practically between the buildings. Desmond struggled tiredly in vain, shouting, "He needs help!"

"Leave him!"

Sliding the van door open, Altair threw Desmond in with himself and slammed the door closed. The tires screeched, Desmond's entire world screeched and lurched. He trembled on the floor with rage, gritting his teeth as he felt a wave of nausea. "Why couldn't you go back for him?" he said angrily.

Altair sat with his back against the door, clenching a fist. Desmond realized how close he was to lashing out. "Because I can't swim and we need _you_."

Haytham drove the car, bringing it roughly about the fountain. Chancing a look to the backseat, he lowered his gaze. "I see... Connor has the way clear to our second location. If Ezio survives he will have a day to make it there."

"You can't swim..." Desmond repeated, shocked.

Taking it as an offense, Altair hit the floor of the car, snapping, "He was shot trying to get your ass out of harm's way like the rest of us, you're the one who fucking put us all in danger. Do you understand the sacrifices in this Creed at all? Desmond!"

Pressing his face to the carpet, Desmond was silent.

Altair turned away, crossing his arms. Desmond bit his lip until a bead of blood trickled down his chin. "I'm sorry," he murmured hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

* * *

**Awwghhhh no ;_; Sadness.**

**Also, the unexpected downtime for the server sucked. I had this thing ready for a while. Meh. Sorry, had to be quick on the notes and final editing here; thanks. I'ma make it better, I promiseeessss**

**Came back 2/8 to update; The worst of my workload should be over by Monday? If I get my butt in gear today I can start catching up to my history class and finish the math stuff in time for the math test on Monday. I actually did pretty well on the other tests so far, all B's :) Much rejoicing. I was barely able to study. So hopefully after this week I can start studying like a pro and get dem A's. Psychology is going at a pace I can handle alright (I need to write about 4-5 papers before the 21st though MMPH, 2 page each exactly.) Biology is a paaaiiinn iinnn myyyy tuuuusshhhh. Subject material? Fine. The way the professor words stuff on the test? Diabolical.**

**Anyhow. Ezio is not dead, I wouldn't do that to you guys xD Desmond is suffering the bleeding effect because of what Altair did with the Apple earlier and because he has made contact with his ancestors.**


	8. Templar

**So I did well on that math test! Whut whut! Still behind in history class. Mrph. Sloowwwlllyyy bouncing back here.**

**Sorry for any upcoming delays? I've actually been pretty good about hopping on here and writing about 1-2k words for a chapter update almost every two days, it only takes about an hour. I also need to revise my real work; I finished the first draft my 101k word supernatural fiction novel in December and need to start the final revisions/edits to present it to a publisher. It's exciting, I have published authors looking at it telling me it's great! In that vein, I'd like you to know this story is just kind of a fun poke at AC, I don't mean to write it really particularly *well* or anything special... just a bit of my writer's conscious leaks through to tell me to do certain things like measure pace/tone shift/tension, haha... I actually hope to end it soon. I'm certainly not going over 40k words with this sucker, need to make room for other ideas and stories. Sorry if you all hoped it would be longer. Enjoy the ride ;)**

* * *

Wind blew through Desmond's wet clothes. He leaned against the front of the van, pulling his heavy hoodie off. They had driven through the night to some unknown location Desmond would not ask, now finally stopped on the edge of a city bordered by a forest and, farther north, a lake. On one side stood the cluster of urban structures, to the other stretched the rolling hills of pine trees. Faint dawn sunlight shone over the brown rooftops. Desmond was still cold and damp from his brief swim in the canal. Hunger gnawed at his belly. He had tried to sleep with little success. As he wrung out his sleeves, Haytham returned with Connor in tow. With little word or emotion, Haytham handed Desmond off to Connor, saying it would be his "first practice session." Desmond adjusted the blade on his arm, shifted his hoodie on once more, and went without complaint. Out of all of them, Connor seemed the least hostile, perhaps even understanding. Ezio was compassionate and entirely a peacekeeper as far as Desmond had seen, and as he walked along the busy street with Connor he began to miss him. He felt like he had lost family; he had, hearing about his birthplace burnt down took its toll. Yet Ezio... Ezio felt like the father he wished he had instead of the hard-ass his real father was. He still wondered how they were related; part of him hoped Ezio was his real father, but hell, he could not see his mother with anyone else. She was more like Altair, now that he thought about it.

Connor headed for the back wall of a church and oddly began climbing up to the steeple. Desmond frowned, dwarfed by the three-story structure. Mustering up his courage, he relented and followed discreetly. The height was not so bad, at least; a pine tree stood welcomingly nearby in case he slipped. Desmond hauled himself to the top behind Connor, asking, "So, what, getting a viewpoint?"

"Yes," Connor answered, scanning the street. "We need to get to that fruit vendor undetected." Pointing to the corner by a small plaza, he added, "Those are Abstergo guards over there. In a minute they will go north and circle back."

Desmond sighed. "They're really starting to swarm the place." Moving closer, he tried to force a smile. "So why isn't Altair out here, not that I mind, I mean... He's been breathing down my neck since we met up again."

For the first time, Connor showed real annoyance. Giving him a glazed-eyed look, he mused, "You offended him. Could be because you ran away so suddenly."

"Well, yeah..." Desmond rubbed his neck, embarrassed. "Sorry- it's just, I'm pretty confused."

Shrugging, Connor returned his attention to the guards. "Ezio wanted to tell you more. Father and Altair are more cautious than they should be."

Desmond waited for Connor to continue. People milled about along the side walks, talking to the guards. Before he could further prod, Desmond's perception changed again. He was looking down from a taller spire, an eagle soaring by while armored men on horseback rode by. _This is... Ezio. No way am I going crazy, _Desmond shook his head. _I'm not that kind, am I?_

"Let's go," Connor nudged Desmond before climbing down. The guards were moving.

On the ground, Connor led Desmond toward a group of pedestrians walking away from the vendor cart. Desmond raised a brow, murmuring, "Why are we walking away..."

Connor replied, "You need to blend."

"Okay," Desmond looked around, seeing the hallucinations flashing by. He felt like he was trying to watch two television channels at once, or some shitty radio channel overlapping another. "Connor..."

"Here," Connor reached behind him and shoved a wad of dollars in Desmond's hand, saying, "Get two bags, don't let your face be seen."

With that, Connor quickened his pace and left Desmond, weaving through the civilians ahead. _Damn it_. Desmond paused for a moment, looking around dumbly. How was he supposed to get by without anyone looking at his face? Also with the strange visions, which were overlapping worse. Desmond instinctively kept his head down and hood up, following the people around him. Well, he did not need to hide his face necessarily... just that no one had a good look at him, or saw anything amiss. By now he probably had his description out there in the media. Trotting along, he headed for a crosswalk. _Just don't do anything out of the ordinary, be an average Joe, _he assured himself.

The signal changed and the people walked. Desmond went along, casually making his way toward the cart. Someone bumped into him from behind. His heart skipped a beat. Turning, he saw Connor for an instant. "How did you- never mind," Desmond grumbled.

"Right behind you," Connor reassured, purposefully lagging behind.

Once at the cart, Desmond pretended to have a cold, coughing as he approached. The vendor, an elderly lady, sat up and smiled at him. Holding an arm to his face in a fake coughing fit, Desmond held out the money and rasped, "Could you fill two bags, ma'am?"

She nodded happily, trilling in Italian, "Oh, you poor dear, of course! Let's get some oranges here, you need your vitamin C..."

Desmond grunted a chuckle, looking away. Connor was still on the sidewalk, looking out for the guards on the ground. The windows of the buildings were a nice touch, Desmond took a second to admire the clean windowpanes and useless shutters on a few. This was a much better city than New York at least. Sometimes he wished for the farm life again, but recalling the hard meals of oats and water, the hardship in the outdoor hikes and his terror when he ran away into the wilderness; his heart pained him. He remembered thinking he would die out in the dark, alone, when he escaped. Running and running, finally away. A lot of good it did him now. Paper bags rustled as the woman loaded them up. Desmond watched an eagle soar by, clipping a building with its talons. For a moment, he wondered if he was still hallucinating. Blinking, the buildings had returned to normal clear focus, but something else was there on the roof. Just a small glimpse, but he swore he could see it.

_Thud! _The woman set the bags down with pride, exclaiming, "There you are, young man! Get well!"

Thanking her, Desmond picked up the bags and began to leave. Not looking at Connor, he whispered, "Do you see something up on the roof?"

Behind him Connor answered, "No, but the guards are coming back. Turn down the corner there."

While his heartbeat grew heavier, Desmond successfully returned to the silver van and deposited the groceries. Taking an apple, he walked back to Connor. "So where are Haytham and Altair?"

Connor crossed his arms, shrugging toward a storefront. "Look, your picture is on the TV now."

Desmond could see a small TV screen in the store, showing his picture like a missing child ad. Frowning, he huffed. "Not even a mug shot, it's like they're trying to get a runaway kid back." _That's too painfully accurate._

Relaxing somewhat, Connor said, "Altair is getting a few other things. My father is- there." They both spotted Haytham between the buildings, walking toward them.

The three joined at an alley halfway from the van. Haytham sipped a cup of tea, greeting them frankly with a nod and jerk of the hand.

"How goes it?" he remarked.

Connor eyed the tea but withheld comment, answering, "Desmond did well, we finished our part unseen. And Altair?"

Uncaring, Haytham took another sip. "He should be around somewhere."

_Ah, then that was who I saw on the roof. _Desmond eased, knowing it was not a Templar, but at the same time prickled at the idea of Altair glowering at him from a distance.

Haytham glanced at his watch. "We leave in five minutes."

Desmond stretched, craning his neck. His stomach gave a growl of protest. Submitting to the whims of his belly, he took a bite of his apple. Haytham hesitated, looking strangely at Desmond. Desmond started to give a sarcastic, annoyed look back. _What, am I too sloppy for you, Jeeves?_

Before he could voice his thoughts, Haytham swore and shoved Desmond back. A dart flew by, implanting itself in the wooden frame of a window beside him. "Shit, what the-" Desmond looked around wildly.

Haytham tossed his cup, looking toward the roof at a figure Desmond had seen before. "Shay!" he barked.

The man crouched atop the roof raised a black bandana over his face, slapping a round object to his air rifle. Desmond thought he heard him speak in a cold, Irish accent, "Lucky shot."

Connor grabbed Desmond and propelled him along the street with Haytham, almost throwing Desmond directly into the man as he lost his apple. "No," snarled Haytham, pushing Desmond toward Connor, "Split up, take Desmond far from me. I have Shay."

Behind them a kind of smoke or gas bomb exploded. Jostled to and fro between the Assassins, Desmond exasperatedly ducked by Connor and ran on his own. He was not sure where he was headed, but an instinct to go forward sent him on. _Anywhere but here, find a hiding place._

The streets cut off to a plaza ahead. Desmond dodged between upset, shouting pedestrians and children, apologizing as he grazed by a toddler. The guards were there, enclosing around Desmond and his group. Vaulting over a park bench, he climbed over a chain link fence without trouble as a guard reached for his leg, yelling at him. On the other side a dog lunged at him, yipping. Desmond somehow avoided tripping over the terrier and bolted through an open door. From what he could see by the surroundings he sped by, he was charging through someone's home. He ended up in a kitchen, panting, hood flipped back. Sighting a window, he threw it open, spooking a white cat on the counter. The cat skittered noisily off onto the floor as Desmond dove out. Landing in a bush, he rolled and continued on, jogging across a road. He was past the city limit now, heading into the pine trees. Skidding to a halt in the tall grass, he gazed behind him. He could still hear the chaos in the city, the guards no doubt alerted. He was alone. Still cautious, he briskly walked along, sticking closer to the trees in case he was spotted. Panic sparked and jumped along his nerves. He started to run again, looking between the buildings for the other Assassins. Far from where he left, he anxiously crossed a bridge and went back into the city by its lakeside. An expanse of blue water to his right blocked any escape in that direction, leaving him the forest and the rest of the city. Pressing himself to a wall, he listened and watched for the others. Only people and guards ran about. Readying himself to dive into the crowd, he stopped and looked up. The man Haytham called Shay was racing between rooftops, pursued by Altair. Desmond felt a thrill watching him go, mentally rooting him on. The white-clothed Assassin was gaining on Shay. The two leapt over Desmond's head, running toward the lake. Edging around the building to watch, Desmond saw Shay leap off the end of the roof, diving seamlessly into the water. Altair stopped on a dime, fists clenched, unmoving as they both searched for sign of Shay. The man resurfaced ten yards away, strongly swimming toward the far side, west.

The silver van screeched up to Desmond and Altair, Connor behind the wheel. The two entered hastily, Desmond practically rolled into the backseat on one side and Altair swooped in from the other. They barely had the doors closed when Connor sped back in reverse, hitting a tailing Abstergo van. Desmond flopped, scrambling along the floor of the van with the loose fruit while Altair sat up calmly. Handling something from a compartment in the door, Altair lowered the window. He lobbed the object he held out toward the Abstergo vehicle as Connor roughly steered the car between the buildings Desmond came from. As they sped over the bridge, the Abstergo car exploded. Just as calmly as before, Altair raised the window and sat down. Desmond saw they were leaving, peeling off past the lake. Concerned, he asked, "Is Haytham meeting us?"

Connor gritted his teeth. "He was captured."

_I should have fucking said something. _Desmond stared at his hands. _This can't be my fault again._

Altair tapped Connor's shoulder, pointing to the hills. "You need to leave the road. We'll hide the car in the forest and continue on foot."

Though Connor almost flipped the car coming down the hill, they made it past the tree line. Bumping along the underbrush, Connor parked in a dense patch after a decent time spent traveling away from the road. Desmond stepped out dizzily, trying not to be sick after the rough ride. Connor gathered their provisions silently, concealing his distress with some difficulty. Leaning, Desmond breathed deeply. _At least this time in the wilderness, I'm not alone. _Altair stalked toward him.

"Put your hood on," he ordered.

Desmond straightened out his hoodie with a stifled noise of irritation. He knew he fucked up, he was as upset as Altair was over Ezio if not more; was Ezio still alive? Altair and Haytham seemed to think so. Regardless, Desmond kicked himself every few seconds for it throughout the night and came to the conclusion it was not helping. Donning the hood, he rubbed his hands in his pockets. Altair said, "Start walking."

Agitation nestled along Desmond's spine like a string of firecrackers. He shot a look at Altair, replying, "I just started catching my breath."

"Desmond," the man growled.

Struggling to control himself, Desmond huffed. "I said I was sorry, alright?"

Altair held no kindness in his serious gaze. "Your apologies do not win battles or save lives. If anything be thankful."

Desmond laughed bitterly. "Great, I have so much to thank you for."

"Do not be sarcastic. It's only because we are cleaning up the mess you made that you are in this position now."

Temper flaring under stress, Desmond turned toward Altair with his shoulders squared. "Yeah, and maybe Ezio and Haytham would still be here if you could swim worth shit."

Before Desmond could react, Altair crossed the distance between them and held him by his throat against the car. Murder flashed in the man's eyes. "I should fucking kill you."

Judging by the blade extended from Altair's wrist, Desmond realized he was serious.

* * *

**Don't insult Altair's need for pool noodles. He'll cut a bitch.**

**Augh! The family IS breaking up :( Don't worry, they'll be together again... Now we get some Desmond and Altair bonding! Look how well they're getting along already. Like a puppy and a cobra. 3**


	9. Explaination

**Someone needs a get-a-long shirt.**

* * *

"Altair!" Connor stepped around the van, scowling. "Stop, you can't be serious."

"I am," the Arab hissed, tightening his grip on Desmond's reddening neck. "The only reason we're risking our lives for him is because _he lives_. He's become a hindrance."

"This is not justice," Connor protested, holding Altair's bladed arm back. "Desmond doesn't need to die! We are here _for _him."

Desmond's vision swam, he felt himself turning blue. Holy _shit _did Altair have a strong grip. What did he do, hang from skyscrapers with those hands?

Squeezing between them farther, Connor asserted, "He's my descendent, too. Back off."

Altair released him. Desmond toppled to the ground, struggling to regain his breath. "What the fuck," he coughed, "you're my uncle?" Connor had said _descendent _but surely that was impossible; Connor could only be in his twenties like Desmond, no where near old enough to be a grandfather.

Now the conflict was between Altair and Connor. They stood stiffly over Desmond, looking as though they may exchange blows. Altair sheathed his blade, grudgingly explaining, "No. We are your ancestors."

Rubbing his sore throat, Desmond slid himself upright against the car to stare at them uneasily. "That's crazy..."

"Start walking." Altair pushed Desmond away. Still seething, he quietly picked up his satchel from the car as Connor gathered their supplies.

Thankfully, Connor continued: "Abstergo Templars use a device called an Animus to uncover the memories of one's ancestors, through that person's genetic memory. Remember what my father said about the Pieces of Eden... Altair, Haytham, Ezio, and I all played a part in handling and hiding those artifacts. The Templars used an Assassin named Clay to see Ezio's memories, through this finding Ezio's Apple and his remains. Clay escaped with Ezio's Apple and another Piece of Eden called the Shroud. He gave these to the Assassins and revealed the Templar's scheme to uncover the other Pieces through our memories."

Desmond hesitantly walked along in front of them while he listened, cutting through the grass. He hoped there were no ticks in Italy.

Altair spoke, reluctantly. "The Assassins thought they would attempt resurrecting Ezio to get ahead of the Templars. They failed the first time, realizing they needed the Ankh. After finding this, they were successful. Soon after Ezio was brought back with those three Pieces, the Templars intercepted their group and slayed them in my tomb, taking Ezio. Upon identifying me and finding my Apple, they resurrected me as well. After this success they further resurrected the Assassin-trained Templars Haytham and Shay, as Shay was needed when Ezio escaped them. I escaped next with the help of Haytham, taking the three pieces. There was a brief... misunderstanding with Ezio. He raised Connor in an attempt to combat Haytham with his previous killer."

Connor lowered his gaze, tensing somewhat with an emotion near remorse.

"It was not needed. Haytham defected within the year and left when Shay uncovered his alliance. Unfortunately Haytham had been implanted with a tracking device, we already planned to change location every week as long as he was with us."

Still raspy from Altair's choke, Desmond hoarsely asked, "Don't they have all the Pieces of Eden locations from you guys, then?"

Altair shook his head. "They found that they could resurrect our bodies, but not all our minds. We do not remember the entirety of our lives, only parts. It became worse as they taught us to live in this new world and tried to take us through the Animus. They planned further experiments, though I doubt we will be of use to finding the Pieces now." Shrugging, he added, "We are mere relics ourselves."

"That's where I come in." Desmond sullenly kicked a rock, twisting his hands in his pockets. "They'd get your memories through me."

Raising a brow suspiciously, Altair questioned, "How do you take it? Are you going to run away again, thinking we are insane?"

Desmond cringed slightly. "No. Trust me, it sounds pretty far out there, but it's the only thing making sense. I think I met one of the people they did Animus experiments on; Daniel Cross is the guy who caught me. He was having some breakdown... a lady said it was a bleeding effect..." Letting his concern show, Desmond gazed back at Altair. "It's starting to happen to me. I'm not so worried about whether what you guys do is just conspiracy and radical stuff, I'm worried that I'm going insane."

Altair's features eased. He walked beside Desmond, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I've heard it," he said calmly, "When we were in the Animus, other test subjects increased progress just in our presence. Besides the Apple I used on you, it seems proximity will bring the memories to life. I trust Connor and I know enough to harmonize your mind, as long as you follow our guidance."

"What's the priority now, then? Are we getting Haytham and Ezio? Destroying Abstergo? Finding the Pieces-?"

Connor purposefully grazed shoulders with Desmond, interrupting, "Securing you. The Ankh's power is limited, we have no idea how long we will live like this."

"For the moment, we keep you safe," Altair nodded. "And prepare you to do those things on your own. We have kept separate from the Brotherhood during this time to concentrate on you. Someday soon, you must lead them to defend the Pieces of Eden and battle the Templars without us at your side. Each of us aided the Brotherhood in some way, now the restoration falls to you. Above all else, you must not be captured and used to further their goals."

Jogging ahead, Connor leapt up a tree with surprising finesse. The branches shivered under his weight. Looking down at Desmond like a strange bird, he called, "Come up and I'll teach you how to travel this way."

Noticing Altair standing aside, Desmond began to smile. "So you don't climb trees eith- _don't hit me_!"

Still watching from above, Connor yelled, "This is why climbing quickly is useful- some foes cannot climb!"

Altair paused from chasing Desmond, glaring up at Connor. "Not you, too!"

"Sucks to be you, doesn't it!" Desmond scrambled up the tree, following Connor. "Really, can't swim or climb?"

Connor advanced across the branches, laughing, "There, keep going and we'll outrun him."

Though Desmond felt like a drunken squirrel, he stumbled along, quickly gaining momentum. He was starting to have _fun _again. Wind blew past his cheek, full of woodland scent, none of it industrial. He had no idea how much he missed being outside; the hikes were brutal at the farm, always so early and so long over such boring land with his father making sure the pace was snappy. Here, he felt he had a reason. He never connected with the other Assassins at home well, and it goes without saying he would feel more comfortable with his own ancestors. For once, he felt that he was where he should be. Skipping along a thinner branch, he deftly jumped to Connor's side as it snapped. The two grinned and surveyed the forest from their height, the dark green swath ahead of them unfolded like a comforter of grass beneath the dwindling sun.

"You have the instinct," Connor praised.

Desmond breathed deeply, happily. "I guess I do..." His smile faltered as he looked down at the white figure prowling under him. Squinting a bit, Desmond speculated, "I probably shouldn't have said a few things."

Below, the Arab crossing his arms with a look of predatory patience. "Yes, you already mentioned his lack of swimming."

"He's going to wail on me when I get down there, isn't he?"

Connor winced slightly for Desmond. "I bet he is."

"You're not going to help?"

Deviously glaring at Desmond, Connor smirked, "I already saved you today, you're on your own."

* * *

**No, Altair, he's just a boy ;_; Play nice! He's not going to try killing him again, and Connor sees the benefit in getting Desmond to fight and gain some experience. Even if, you know, he's just running around trying not to get stabbed in the ass by Altair.**

**Yeah, I snuck Clay in there. Gotta give him some props. Doot doot, go Clay!**

**I think I just won't have the 1st civ people at all in here. For all I care they're absolutely dead and gone for this AU. (Obligatory "Fuck you" to Juno)**


	10. Seeing Red

**That's right, trolololol! I'm messin with teh pizzas of Eden! TRY AND STOP ME.**

**Over 3,200 views? Damn, folks. Thank you for the continued reviews, reads, faves, all that jazz :) I actually lost a favorite recently so, uh... I'm sorry? You can tell me if I suck ;_;**

**As soon as I get finished with this I'll write more family fics for the gang. It ain't over yet, so here, have some Haytham and Shay!**

* * *

Cold steel met Haytham's wrists. He withheld a sneer as the Abstergo agent secured the handcuffs, opting to suggest, "These are hardly necessary."

The agent quelled under his glare, backing away. Their leading commander, a slim blonde, stood by the lake facing away from Haytham. "They are, seeing as you killed twelve of our people when you were with us last time." Narrowing her eyes, the commander prodded her underling. "Where is Cormac?"

A series of wet squelching alerted them. Dripping wet, Shay walked toward them. He wrung his bandana in his hands, wayward strands of dark hair stuck to his brow. "Here," he muttered. An expression of sad disappointment came over him as he met Haytham's gaze. He looked like a child would after losing an idol- close to pouting.

"I see you outmaneuvered Altair," said Haytham. "Exploiting one of his many weaknesses at that. I expected more from you."

Shay slowly wrung out his gloves. "I did overtake you at the plaza."

"Oh, it was a fluke." Haytham brushed a speck of dirt from his coat. "Bombs and guerrilla warfare."

The female commander unsuccessfully attempted to help Shay. He refused her aid, grumpily squeezing out his own jacket. Haytham half-expected him to shake himself like a mongrel next. "Not really," the woman pointed out, "He stunned you long enough for us to hack back into your chip."

Haytham frowned. "Exactly why these," he jangled his cuffs, "are unnecessary. Why, you could shock me with the chip again, couldn't you?"

"Miss Stillman!" A young agent came running, cellphone in hand. "Dr. Vidic called, he says Mr. Berg is coming late, he had to catch Cross in Florence."

The woman sighed heavily. "John! Not in front of Kenway," she gestured toward Haytham.

Haytham smiled regardless, leaning against the van beside him. "Never mind me. Either way you will not find Desmond."

"Overconfidence does not suit you, Grand Master," Shay said. Sufficiently wrung out, he fumbled his damp jacket back on. Throughout the spectacle, he retained a level of stateliness. "Altair will be easily found, as will Desmond."

A dark edge gleamed in Haytham's eyes, his chest swelled in paternal pride. "Not as long as he is with my son."

* * *

"You're talking to the wind again, Desmond." Connor tapped Desmond's shoulder.

Realizing he was facing a tree, Desmond spun around. "Damn it," he groused. "I thought Altair said the visions wouldn't be a problem anymore."

Across from them in the wintry clearing, Altair walked away, going toward a row of trees to relieve himself. The man had yet to even shift his hood. Somehow even asleep it stayed on; if catching Altair with his eyes closed for a minute was considered sleep. Sunlight gently cast a yellow hue on his white hood. Connor followed Desmond's glare and remarked casually, "He did say if you follow through our motions, you should synchronize your mind. So..." his mouth twitched in a small smile, "do you want to learn how to assassinate a target unseen?"

Desmond gave a befuddled look. "How..." He watched Connor's smile grow to a bobcat grin. "_Ah_."

Connor led the way, crouching along the bushes. Sneaking behind him, Desmond gradually felt where to place his movements best to remain unheard. The forest growth was stiff and prickly in late fall, with the promise of snow soon. Altair had just reached the tree line, oblivious. Desmond edged around a gnarled tree root, careful not to step on any branches. Like an owl, Altair smoothly swiveled his head to scan his surroundings before unzipping. Connor beckoned to Desmond, whispering, "He's suspicious, use your eagle vision to track him."

Desmond squinted, focusing. "Alright, he's red."

Halting, Connor glanced at Desmond. "He should be blue."

"No, red."

"Not yellow?"

"I said he's red."

Connor furrowed his brow. "Fine, that must be the bleeding effect. Go ahead alone, he doesn't check the trees well."

Nodding, Desmond disappeared into the forest and began climbing up to a tall branch. He felt an automatic sleight to his movements, as if he were remembering an old trick. Partly he was; he had trained at the farm for years, but never much to do with such technical things. He had built awareness, agility, strength, and speed, but not any specific techniques for assassination or subterfuge. Carefully, he went across the tree limbs toward Altair. With a pause Desmond stared down at him. What exactly was he supposed to do now? Just land on him? Then he saw it. The phantom of Connor jumping down, pouncing upon a redcoat with ease. Desmond reached up and pulled his hood on- ironic effect. Below him Altair had finished and was beginning to walk away. From the bushes Connor whistled.

Altair narrowed his eyes, chastising, "Connor, that is the oldest trick in the history of-"

Desmond landed on Altair's shoulders, plowing him into the ground. Pulling back Altair's hood, he declared, "Requiescat in Pace."

Beneath him, Desmond could feel Altair's muscles coiling. He was surprised already that his assault had been successful, though Altair did catch himself well enough on the ground. Unmoving, Altair gave a short chuckle, "You think that is funny?"

Connor rolled out of the bushes, laughing. Altair tried to throw Desmond over his shoulder. Barely holding on, Desmond stayed despite Altair's growl, "Let go!"

"No, it's safer here."

Wiping a tear from his eye, Connor sat up. "We need to get moving," he gasped, controlling his mirth.

Altair became deviously quiet again. "Just a moment, I have a joke for Desmond." Calmly, he fell backward on top of Desmond. As they struggled in the grass, he said, "I can be funny, I will make you laugh."

The air had left Desmond's lungs when Altair dropped to the ground, leaving him at a disadvantage. He hesitated, seeing Altair's face unobstructed. There, over his lips, showed a scar much like Desmond's. Desmond paused too long, and Altair overcame him. Sitting on Desmond's chest, Altair restrained his wrists above his head with one hand. One of few smiles Desmond had seen from him appeared unsettlingly. He prodded Desmond's side with his free hand.

"So what's the joke?" Desmond asked.

Altair dug his fingers into Desmond's ribs, smiling, "You."

"I'm not ticklish-augh!" A strangled laugh escaped Desmond. He kicked frantically in avail, managing to yelp, "CONNOR, GET HIM OFF!"

* * *

"Those three are merciless killers," said Berg. "Altair is not to be underestimated, Lucy."

Lucy Stillman nodded. "Yes sir."

Silently, with an air of utmost sophistication, Haytham entered his cell in front of them. A guard reached for his hat. Haytham tensed for an instant, swiftly slapping the man's wrist like a child's. Berg gave the man a sidelong look. Before he could attempt again, Lucy said, "I doubt the hat is going to do any damage."

Haytham clasped his hands behind his back and proceeded to sit on the low bed. The guard muttered something under his breath, leaving while he rubbed his hand.

Berg turned away from Haytham, reentering the steel and blue hallway of Abstergo's Florence headquarters. Shay stood by the window, staring out past the first rays of sun. Beckoning him closer, Berg began, "We may use the ace up our sleeve later... For now, we will not."

Shay set his jaw impatiently. "Why? We have limited time."

Beside them, a slim white and brown bird flew directly into the window, bouncing solidly off. Lucy twitched, Shay glanced toward it, while Berg remained still. "Because there is a chance they will move toward the other Pieces, Shay," he continued, "or contact other Assassins. If anything, being with his ancestors will accelerate Desmond's progress- prime him for the Animus, if you will."

Lucy eyed him. "At what cost?"

Placing a hand on the glass, Berg apathetically examined the spot of blood on the other side. "None significant. Continue to pursue him... Gently, gently cause him enough fear and anxiety, the healthiest amount of pain, to motivate him."

Shay exchanged gazes with Lucy. "What is the next step," he asked.

Berg pressed his thumb over the spot. The warmth radiated through the glass, causing the blood to make the slightest of movements downwards.

"Release Ezio Auditore."

* * *

**Fuck yeah.**

**Hey, my computer has been weird and deleted this a bunch of times. Here you are. It was aggravating to re-fuckin-write this. Hurpadurpadurp.**


	11. When in Rome

**I'm motivated. I had a suggestion come in, and I'm takin' it. And oh hey look, more favorites and follows of sympathy! I love you guys.**

**I was a bit worried how crowded I was making things? Bah humbug. You came for the modern AU. You got the modern AU. E'rybody cheer for this mudderfcudng AU. (Or you came for the fluff. Dat lovely fuzzy fluff.)**

**Keep in mind I started the timeline here in August, on Desmond's original date of capture by Abstergo in the original. Also, sorry, I have another college-heavy week and weekend to tackle now. The updates are shorter for now, but I felt like I should release what I have as I go instead of waiting for one bigger 2k-3k chapter once a week. What do you think, bigger updates once every 7-10 days or shorter ones more often as I get 'em done? Shoot, this just _might_ go over 40k, I'm having fun...**

* * *

_September_

A tide of change had come crashing down on Desmond in mere days. He felt as though Altair had picked him up yesterday, when at this point a month had passed. Everything was coming back to him; all those days hiking, training, and tuning his mind were flooding him, along with the bleeding effect. Learning techniques from his ancestors themselves relieved the effect most of the time, but it did not help him when he fell asleep. In his dreams he was without their aid. Memories from Ezio were strongest, and as Desmond was progressing through them, _painful. _He felt Ezio's physical and mental strain as his own. The man had lost his entire damn family; all in front of him when he could do nothing but see their lives stolen. Desmond struggled to figure out how a person faced with so much loss could turn out as he did; still compassionate and dignified. Also, he had to admit, Ezio was a smooth sort of philanderer; in a cheesy way. Having such a romancer in his lineage was somewhat embarrassing. At the same time, he hoped to learn some of that charisma.

Altair on the other hand...

Halfway through the second week together, Altair disappeared, leaving his supplies behind. Desmond woke late at noon near Rome when he was greeted by Connor, informing him Altair had left with little more than a quick, "Keep Desmond out of trouble, if Ezio is not captured he would meet you in Rome."

They both guessed he had left to hide the Apple somewhere, though Desmond sensed Connor withholding more from him. Beyond that, some memories of Altair's life were coming through, so far Desmond gleaned that he used to be a real prick. He was highly skilled and radically rebellious prick. At a glimpse he had to possess some critical self-discipline later. Connor informed him of all their former ranks; Altair had been the leading mentor of the Creed during his time, Ezio did the same in his own time period, Haytham had been a Templar Grand Master, and Connor himself had salvaged the Brotherhood. Desmond had many questions for Ezio if they met again, yet none for Altair- none he thought he would get a good response for, at least. Surely Altair was not that sour all the way through. He was like a block of cold chocolate with a chewy, rowdy nougat center swaddled in a crunchy wrapper of ill humor.

And today Desmond was determined to get a piece. As soon as he saw Altair meandering through the crowded Rome streets, he leapt to his feet. For the past three days he only experienced Connor's memories and a steady flow of Ezio's. Nothing he did mentally seemed to evoke Altair's memories. Being physically close to him had some effect before he left, bringing to mind purely boring mental images of desert landscape. Desmond had seen his fill of desert scenery from his birthplace. Maybe being near him now after a week of absence would bring something new. That, and Desmond needed to know where the hell he had been.

Desmond opened his mouth to speak, and Connor spoke quicker: "What happened to you?"

"Hm?" Altair peered sleepily from under his hood. He shouldered a different pack, a black satchel Desmond thought seemed familiar.

Recognizing it now, Desmond gestured to his chest. "You're covered in blood."

Altair stared at the rusty brown stains on his sweatshirt. "It isn't mine."

"Do I want to..."

"No," Altair narrowed his eyes, "you do not want to know. Is Ezio not here?"

Desmond's heart sank. "We haven't seen him." Something about that satchel in particular was poignant... He had seen someone else wear it before. Abruptly, the synapses clicked in his brain. "You met with my father!"

"Shh!" hissed Connor.

The three began walking, away from passersby. Altair's feet scuffed wearily over the stone pavement. He yawned, answering, "I may have, perhaps, how do you know?"

"That's his bag, my mom stitched a tear on the side. She... wasn't that good at it then." A sad, small laugh tumbled out of him. Concern showed through as he questioned, "Is... is she okay, then?"

Altair cast a sympathetic look back at him. "I do not know. I did receive the satchel from your father, he did not want you to know his involvement."

"What did you leave for, I thought you said you were separate from the modern Creed?"

"Losing Ezio sets us behind. This," he waved to their surroundings, "is his domain, despite its changes over the years. Your ability to speak the native language has been a benefit, but we are at a disadvantage again, especially with Haytham captured as well. I contacted my Syrian brethren and through them their American mentor, Bill Miles. We will return you to North America, at least there both Connor and you have better footing."

The gears turned slowly in Desmond's mind. "You aren't coming?"

"Hmph," Altair sat on a stone bench, in the shade of a pavilion. "What makes you think that?"

Connor crossed his arms. "Considering you operate alone, and you have told us before you would not work with the modern Assassins."

Leaning his elbows on his knees, Altair began to speak slower with drowsiness, "Never mind it. I had to go alone this time because I expected contact with the Assassins to be dangerous. I was all too correct," he pinched the dried blood on his jacket, "the Templars followed me closely. I will follow for as long as I need to escort Desmond."

Desmond made a surprised noise. "Aren't you going to help me synchronize your memories?"

Altair fixed a chilling glare on Desmond. "You seem to be doing well enough learning from him," he lifted a finger toward Connor.

Wind blew through the pavilion, tugging at Desmond's sleeves. Connor seemed to accept his words at face value, agreeing Desmond's progress was decent. Cocking a brow, Desmond tried not to smile with the terribly petty realization on his mind. "Altair..."

"What?" he almost snarled.

Damn it all, the smirk was plastered on his face. "Are... are you _jealous_?"

"No!" The color rose in Altair's face. "I am not," he grumbled quieter, looking away. "Wipe that grin off your face before I scrape it off."

Connor gazed between them, surprised. "Altair-" he began.

"Put your hands up!" someone commanded.

The three saw the Abstergo guard moving toward them, leveling a handgun at Desmond. Connor unsheathed his blade, charging toward him. At the same time, another guard stepped around the corner by Altair. Reacting instinctively, Desmond stabbed the man under his chin. A dart whizzed by his shoulder, cutting the fabric. Connor eliminated the guard a second later. Altair was standing reaching to move Desmond. Before he could, another dart buried itself in Desmond's arm. _Darts? They're being very careful..._

Quickly becoming dizzy, Desmond blearily looked around for his attacker. At least three more guards were coming down the opposite street, the one reloading his weapon must be the lucky man. Suddenly Desmond found himself in the air, then moving... A muscled shoulder bumped against his stomach. He tried to turn, realizing fuzzily that he was being carried.

"You are in good hands, bambino!" Ezio smiled back at him.

* * *

The carpet cleaner droned loudly. An elderly woman dragged the machine back and forth over a fresh, dark red blotch over the gray rug. Berg paced in the lobby, each step long and precariously slow. Shay advanced from the elevator, rifle in hand as though he had been interrupted in cleaning it. "Sir?" he spoke. "Has anything transpired here?"

Holding up a hand, Berg said, "No, no... A dim witted messenger became a browning stain on the clean rug is all. He brought with him upsetting news."

Shay eyed the dark color on the rug, and the cheery woman scrubbing it away. "Which is?"

Berg cracked his knuckles. "Altair made a move rather early in the game. Cheating, though I'm not surprised of course- they are Assassins. The only reason he could be in touch with Syria's Brotherhood at this point in time would be to protect himself; he went alone, Apple in hand. It seems he has abandoned Desmond, suspecting Ezio is still in custody and would reveal the location of the Shroud... which, unknowingly, he has. We gained that much from his recent memory."

"We should replicate Ezio's maneuver, then," said Shay.

"My thoughts exactly." Berg pointed to a fleck of red by his shoe, remarking to the woman, "Missed a spot, ma'am."

She nodded, moving to clean the last of whoever was unfortunate enough to relay unsavory information.

Berg continued, "We will raise Altair's former opponent."

* * *

**Dun, dun, duuunnnn.**

**Ezio is back, bitches! Haytham is still here. He'll be back in the line of action soon, and it will be marvelous. I definitely will write an AU Connor and Haytham family fic specifically for them once this is done, and I dare say I foresee other family fics... and me taking requests later... Hurhurhur. I'll also kill your hopes right now: no Arno. I'm sorry. I never played Unity so... Arno will not be in this.**

**And SWEET FANCY MOLASSES! over 4k views now**


	12. Player X Has Entered the Game

**Yeah, Ezio was out for about four chapters, he was supposed to be back sooner but the update length is wacky.**

**But he's back now, hhnnnnnggg... **

**To clarify the bleeding effect again: this is AU, with AU rules, so in my little wonderland Desmond does not need to be in the Animus to be affected by his DNA memory. The Animus just reached back into it and whatnot, even in the original story it seems they do not need to be in an Animus to get the bleeding effect, as seen with Cross, who was not put into the Animus before getting the BE but had been surgically experimented on by Abstergo as a child. Either way, in this AU I made it possible for Desmond to get the bleeding effect after Altair messed with mind/hallucination control through the Apple, and because Desmond is in presence of his ancestors, so it's eliciting a deja vu sort of deal best described le Bleeding Effect. Sorry it is not more accurate?**

**And, f****or Loofa: "**_Heeeell yeeeeeeah. Look. At. That._  
_ This story is blossoming into a cuddly, suspenseful bucket of amazing_.**" You bet your sweet keester it is! *Insert burning Elmo gif* Moar cuddles! MOAR!**

* * *

_Piece of shit! I only wish you'd suffered more! You met the fate you deserved! I hope you... _  
_Enough, Ezio! Show some respect! _  
_Respect? After all that's happened? Do you think he would have shown either of us such kindness? _  
_You have killed Vieri- do not become him._

Desmond woke from Ezio's memory jarringly. Cold sweat dampened his skin, otherwise the hairs on the back of his neck and arms would have stood erect. He shivered briefly, staring at the new room he was in. Unlike the large house he had been taken to first in Florence, this one was smaller, older, with a safe and humble feel to it. Three candles were lit on a low desk across from the daybed Desmond rested on, a window to his left showed the edge of the nighttime Coliseum walls beyond. Desmond tried to move, and felt a hand gently pull him back into someone's chest. He looked up into a friendly face.

"You are safe," said Ezio, patting Desmond's shoulder. "It has only been a few hours."

"Thank you," Desmond could not help but beam back at him in relief. "It's great to see you- _ugh_!"

Ezio squeezed Desmond's neck in a tight embrace, heartily laughing. "I've missed you too, bambino!"

Once Ezio released him he shifted slightly; the Italian sat behind Desmond on the daybed with one leg beside him, the other over the edge. Desmond wiped the sweat off his brow with his sleeve, murmuring, "Where have you been?"

Folding his hands behind his head, Ezio sighed. "I am sorry I was wounded so easily. I managed to escape by the canal, for a while. The Templars had me in cuffs by the end of the day, but... they only healed and released me."

Desmond gazed out the window, watching a bird flutter by the roof. "So they're trying to track you back to me, I guess."

Ezio shrugged, moving Desmond by the motion. "Or they are trying to find the Piece needed for further resurrection; Altair has the Apple, I hid the Shroud. They have the Ankh again, perhaps they will find the Shroud, but without something as powerful as the Apple they will not succeed."

"Right," Desmond nodded in affirmation. Settling against Ezio's chest, he began a hackneyed attempt, "So, uh... you're awful warm." _Why does he care? Does he see me like his own child? That's about right, I suppose, him being my grandfather by something like twelve generations back._

Rubbing his knuckles lightly over Desmond's head, Ezio exclaimed, "Bene! You were cold, I thought you should be comfortable while Connor finds blankets."

"Altair isn't here?"

"Not inside, at least," Ezio squinted at the window. "He mentioned a plan to move you to America del Nord, without me he did not have the safe house locations I had established in Italia."

"Del Nord, you mean North America?"

"Yes, America del Nord, that is what I said."

"It's North America."

"America del Nord."

Desmond snorted humoredly, giving up. "Alright..."

The door creaked open, allowing Connor to step inside. Unlike the rest of them, he did not look tired in the slightest. Throwing a folded quilt at Desmond, he dragged a chair over and sat backwards in it. Leaning on the backrest, he asked mischievously, "You think Altair really is jealous?"

Ezio stretched his ankle, relaxed but firm as he cautioned, "Be kind to him, he is a skilled and seasoned man."

"Skilled in bad humor, seasoned with grit," remarked Desmond. His comment earned him a flick over the ear by Ezio. "What? He can't take a joke."

Smiling in the dim light, Connor rejoined, "He and my father get along too well. They both talk of the Assassins and Templars today like they are old men watching children."

"I should start calling him Grandpa," Desmond chuckled deviously.

Ezio jabbed at him, lightly chiding, "Both of you now, have respect for your elders. What is an old man to do with you coglioni?"

Reflexively, Desmond shielded his ribs. Connor sighted his action and pointed, teasing, "Prod him again in his sides, he makes a noise like a scared rabbit."

Desmond bolted upright, arms crossed to protect his sides. Before he could reject Connor's claim, he let out an eloquently described squeak as Ezio dug his fingers under his arms. Rolling, he scrambled to push Ezio off with his feet. This time Connor joined, the two of them an unholy alliance. Desmond wriggled onto the floor, shouting between gasps, "Goddammit! Fucking mature, guys!"

* * *

"Scepter," Vidic demanded.

Under the pale florescent light, the assistant tentatively handed him a long, ornate stave. Shay, Lucy, and Berg watched from afar along the laboratory wall. Vidic aligned the three Pieces before him; a white Shroud over the skeleton resting on the Animus, the scepter, and the Ankh. Lucy stepped forward to the computer, preparing its screen. Vidic stared with intense concentration at the Shroud, as though that alone would raise the skeleton beneath. A small beep sounded from the computer. Lucy raised her thumb in approval, saying, "The language barrier-buffer is in place, and the basic industrial info."

Shaking his head, Vidic said, "No! No... take out the information, leave the buffer."

"Sir, if he panics..."

"Miss Stillman," Vidic warned, "Do as told."

Visibly quelling her anger, Lucy nodded. From the sliding doors came three guards, jostling a blindfolded woman between them. She strained against their grip, panting. Her black hair lay in a mess over her shoulders. Lucy eyed her as well.

"Zaina is so weak," Shay observed. "Will she be able to wield the Pieces?"

Vidic gave a sinister grin. "Oh, I dare say she will; weakening her was needed to... submit her to their power. After the fact, however, nature will, ah, take its course."

An uneasiness might have shown in Shay's features, if it did he concealed it well. Responding with a short huff, he silently watched them force the woman to touch the Pieces before her. They began to shimmer, along with the computer screen glitching spastically. The lights in the room dimmed as though from an electric surge; the woman breathed heavily. The Shroud seemed to solidify, or grow. At last a bulb died with a loud pop- the woman fell lifelessly to the floor. The room seemed to grow hot. Lucy glanced back to Vidic, mouthing _Success._

Nearly hopping with enthusiasm, Vidic greeted, "Rise, now, my friend."

The shape under the Shroud jerked. Grunting, the person sat upright, the Shroud slipping down to his naked waist. The man rubbed his face, scrunching his brow.

"Welcome to the world of the living, we wish you peace and safety."

The man looked at the room, his eyes falling upon the broad Templar emblem over the far desk. He scowled with enough ire to curdle milk within a cow itself. Staring back at Vidic, he growled, "Your presence deprives me of both."

Lucy suppressed a laugh. She picked up a folded pile from the floor, offering the clothing to the man. "I am sorry we could not reconstruct your arm perfectly, but it will do, only weaker. Welcome back, Malik Al-Sayf."

* * *

Dust gathered by Desmond's cheek as he compressed himself tighter. Connor poked him with the tip of a finger, lying flat on the floor. "Come out from under the bed, Desmond, we won't harm you."

Casting a suspicious glance over his shoulder in the tight space, Desmond hissed, "Tickling counts. Fuck both of you, I couldn't breathe." _Rolling under the bed and leaping into haystacks, apparently those are the best hiding places._

Ezio attempted next, stilling controlling his laughter. "I apologize. Come out, please?"

Desmond scooted himself comfortably into a ball. "No, not until my sides aren't sore."

A third pair of footsteps entered the room. "What is this nonsense?" a stern voice demanded.

Connor ducked out, striking his head on the bed as he went. Ezio spoke, "Hello, Altair! You look no worse for wear this evening."

"... Is Desmond under there?"

Ezio tapped his fingers on the floorboards passively. "Maybe."

"_Why_?" Altair sighed.

_Oh shit, _Desmond thought, _I can't look weak in front of him, he'll wail on me again._

"We can't really get him out," said Connor.

"Yes, but why in Allah's name is he there at all?"

"No reason," Ezio began, at the same time Connor simply answered, "We tickled him until he rolled under the bed."

Desmond muttered, "You traitor."

In spite of his protests, Connor lifted the bed and let Altair drag him out. Once out, Altair looked at him disapprovingly. "Any Assassin should be able to protect himself under duress; from _tickles _of all things."

Desmond stood, beginning to smile. "You know," he said casually, "I'm starting to wonder how _you _would fare."

"Oh?" Altair posed himself to pounce.

"Good idea!" Connor jeered, grabbing Altair. With Connor's help, Desmond took Altair to the floor, launching the first attack of the evening. To his surprise, Ezio drug him off and began poking his ribs again, laughing.

An all-out brawl erupted. Evidently Altair was not fond of tickling when he was on the receiving end. For the first minute all was in good fun, Ezio decided to call a truce after Altair nearly threw Connor out the window. Altair and Connor seemed to make up almost immediately, beginning to speak conversationally on the way out the door. Ezio started to leave. On the edge of the daybed, Desmond called softly, "Hey, Ezio."

Turning smoothly on his heel, Ezio answered nicely, "Yes?"

Desmond rubbed the back of his head, anxious. "Um... Could you... Do you mind just staying here?"

Raising a brow, Ezio opened his palms. "I am not leaving."

"No, I mean..." Desmond huffed, embarrassed. "I've been getting nightmares. Just... stay with me until I fall asleep, if you could wake me up then..."

Ezio cross the room, flopping down on Desmond's bed. "I will be here," he soothed.

Hesitating, Desmond glanced at the door. "Where's Altair?"

"He has the first night watch outside."

Settling beside Ezio, he murmured, "Good... Don't tell him."

Ezio chuckled. "Alright."

The sun rose the next morning, laying its soft orange rays on the sleeping forms of Ezio, Desmond, Altair, and Connor, all heaped together in a pile by the daybed. Connor snored lightly while Altair rested on the top of the group, his hood gently pushed back.

* * *

**See, I have to strike a balance. Can't make Desmond a total puss and can't make anyone complete ass either, so y'know... It's interesting. But you all know at this point Desmond's dad never hugged him ;_; he needs some love.**

**Hey, Person who Sent a Suggestion In: I remember! That suggestion is coming up soon, don't think I'm shunting it. Shh! Remember it's our secret.**


	13. Loyal Traitor

**HOW has it been a month now since this was published? Ah. Well. At least I update at an okay pace. The update fairy has been called forth.**

**An Assassin dog-pile. So cute. So soft. So kind. So squished.**

* * *

Desmond clawed to the edge of the bed, breathing at last. Confused to wake under a considerable weight, he looked over his shoulder to see Ezio stuffed against the wall, he and Desmond blanketed by Altair lying lengthwise over their middle and Connor splayed with his head at their feet. For a hopeful moment Ezio seemed to be waking up. He yawned and stretched, pushing Connor's foot from his face and locking an arm around Desmond. Muffled noises of desperation rose from Desmond as Ezio drug him back under the pile.

"_Shh_," Ezio murmured, "No tears, only dreams, belladonna."

"_Hmph-rh-oehf!"_

Ezio blinked, loosening his grip on Desmond, who rasped, "I said I can't breathe."

"Oh, I am sorry."

From the foot of the bed Connor turned over, kicking Desmond in the chin and unsettling Altair. "Time to get up, then," he said loudly.

Kicking him lightly in return, Ezio put a finger to his lips and pointed to Altair, half-asleep. "Do not wake him... he's tired."

Desmond snorted playfully, "Gramps."

Smothering Desmond's face with his elbow to silence him, Ezio carefully raised his leg to Connor could move without disturbing Altair. Difficultly, Connor crawled out onto the floor. He stood and straightened his jacket. "I'll be back with breakfast," he whispered, exiting quietly.

Out from under Ezio's arm, Desmond froze. To Ezio, he mouthed, _Is he still asleep?_

Ezio moved his eyebrows as a shrug. Strategically, he moved over Desmond, releasing his arm. Ezio twisted, watching Altair as he hovered over Desmond's chest. Altair lay on his back, arms crossed, with his shoulders over Ezio's leg. Somehow Ezio contorted himself to hold Altair's head away from the wall, arching his back over the bedside, his upper body upside down with his hands on the floor. With extreme precision, he deftly slid his leg out from Altair, over Desmond, as he maneuvered to stand on his head by the bed. Altair lightly slid off his leg, now lying with his head on Desmond's stomach. Soundlessly, Ezio rolled to his feet and spread his arms in victory. Desmond glared back at him as he gave him a cheesy grin, making a sign with his fingers while he mouthed _Molto bene._

"Don't you dare leave..." hissed Desmond.

Ezio put a finger to his lips, gesturing to be quiet. "_Let him sleep_," he whispered. As he left, he shut the door with the utmost care.

Desmond stared down at the back of Altair's head, the man's hood down for one of few times Desmond had seen. _Great; I can't leave and he'll kill me when he wakes up._

* * *

Dull, aching pain pulsed along the base of Haytham's skull. He leaned against the wall of his cell, steadying himself. Abstergo's attempts to uncover his memories were as fruitless as when he left; to say nothing of the procedure to remove and implant a new tracking device in him. Fortunately for him, he could see the mark where they cut into his shoulder. He knew where the chip was, if he ever had the chance to he could then remove it himself. A mottled sort of migraine settled over him. With each day he remembered less of the so-called "important" things of his past. Rather, the memories that were strengthening were of his death. If all he had to himself were _those _events to dwell on, he began to wonder if he had any desire to live a second life as such. This could very well be his chance to organize the Templars once more, if he could acquire a foothold among them. Currently being a test subject was not much of a position. In reality, it was driving him insane.

The door to his room slid open. Unarmed, Shay walked in. His expression was dismal, his very stride sullen and pensive. "Hello, Haytham."

"Oh, how are things?" Haytham greeted, upholding a presence of strength despite the aching in his skull.

Shay looked around the room, thinking. "They've resurrected another Assassin."

Hiding his interest, Haytham remarked, "I doubt that will turn out well for them."

"No," Shay faced him, "I know it will not. Malik is clever and grounded in his beliefs; he has not spoken in opposition of the Templars yet, he is not easily fazed nor affected. He will undo their plans easily."

"You seem terribly dissatisfied."

Shay raised his gaze. "I am beginning to question a few methods." Under his sleeve, he unstrapped a hidden blade. "For example, the security in this room seems to be broken. For only three more minutes, I would say." He offered the blade to Haytham, who recognized it as his own.

Haytham regarded him with suspicion, saying, "It is not enough to persuade you?"

"I am not like you and Malik." He shook his head. "And I've changed sides enough for a lifetime."

Haytham accepted the blade. He placed a hand on Shay's shoulder, smiling, "It's a new life."

* * *

Sitting at a low desk, Ezio completed the last of six bombs. The structure was incredibly simple in this modern era; ingredients could be found in any "general store" as they called it. Ezio carefully tucked the set away in his pouch. Looking down at an empty desk now, he remembered fondly writing letters to Claudia. His adventures seemed only days ago, dreamily floating in his mind as if from a night of drinking. Those evenings with his brother Federico were among his more pleasant memories. _It is a good life we lead, brother._

The door burst open. Ezio snapped his blade out, standing at an instant. Connor entered and shut the door behind him quickly, breathing hard. With a nod to Ezio, he placed his load of groceries down on the old wood floor. "There are Abstergo Templars all along the north and eastern side," he said, "We will have to move soon."

Ezio sheathed his blade and thanked him, adding, "Was Altair out there?"

"No, is he missing again?"

Starting up the stairs, Ezio murmured, "I think... he may still be sleeping. I was wondering if he had left, it is quiet up there."

Connor followed curiously. "Did you leave him alone with Desmond?"

"Well, eh..." Ezio sheepishly grinned. "I assume they are alright."

Rolling his eyes, Connor muttered, "You might as well have left him with a bear. Altair almost killed Desmond before, I would not leave them alone."

"You worry too much, my friend."

Ezio silently turned the door handle, cracking the door open in increments. The rusty hinges gave the slightest resistance to Ezio's sensitive touch. At a hand's width, Ezio and Connor peeked inside. A moment of tension sank as they saw Desmond lying on his back, chest slightly rising and falling. Altair slept with his upper half sprawled over Desmond, an arm hanging off the bedside. The scene was peaceful, with both of them still and soundless in slumber by the sunlit window. Ezio exchanged a relieved, giddy expression with Connor, straining a whisper, "Mi dio, see?"

The two lightly left the door ajar and crept away. Connor held a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. "That's- adorable."

"Shh," Ezio gripped his arm. "Altair does not know that we know, yes?"

Connor nodded vigorously. "Yes."

Downstairs, they attempted to work as quietly as possible to prepare a breakfast of eggs, toast, and fruit. Ezio began happily undertaking most kitchen tasks, leaving Connor to stand and think. He gazed at Altair's black satchel by the corner of the room. No person would knowingly touch Connor's possessions, nor Altair's, thus the two mutually respected one another's belongings. Yet Connor eyed the pack with increasing curiosity.

"I wonder if Altair hid the Apple," he wondered aloud, tugging at his jacket's zipper.

"Ask him," replied Ezio, "I would not touch his things with a ten-foot pole."

"I know, but if he did, does it mean we are still giving Desmond to the modern Assassins now that you are here?"

Ezio frowned. "I have yet to talk with him about it. I would hope Desmond stays with us or we with him."

Leaning against the doorframe, Connor crossed his arms. "At least Altair is not going to kill him."

* * *

_Christ, he's going to kill me, _Desmond feared. As soon as he realized he had rolled over and taken Altair with him, his life flashed before his eyes. Fuck, what a life it was; his piss-poor attitude stared him down from a memory of his reflection in a shot glass. He raised himself on an elbow, lying on his side. Altair opened his eyes only to slits, painstakingly disentangling himself from Desmond. Desmond waited for the sharp _snick! _of the blade, the nasty remark, the chokehold. Instead, Altair dragged a pillow to his head and moved onto his other side, facing away. Another confused silence stretched between them.

Desmond almost apologized, catching himself. "Listen..." he began hesitantly, "I know was kind of a jerk to you earlier." When Altair remained silent, he tried again, "So, it's just that you're a tall shadow to be in, alright? I want to learn from you, too, not just Connor. But if you don't want to deal with me, then... I understand, just tell me what to do."

Altair said something under his breath.

"What?" asked Desmond, leaning closer.

"_I'm cold._"

"Oh."

Desmond saw the blanket on the floor, no doubt placed there by Connor's maneuvering to escape this morning. He looked from it to Altair's stiff form. Out of a desire for closeness and to see just how far he could push his luck, Desmond curled against Altair's back. "How's that?" he smirked.

Altair sighed. "Fine... do not roll over on me again." Unseen by Desmond, he gave a thin smile. "Idiot."

* * *

**Cuddlin'. I'm sorry, I couldn't help it. It's too cute.**

**So this is the shorty for the weekend, maybe I'll get to Malik tonight or tomorrow. And yes, from the above, you can see Haytham is escaping with the help of Shay. Hawt dayumn he's back in the story soon :3**


	14. Santa merda

**Here comes the boom.**

**Alright, I barely had time to write, sorry for the first delay. I kept warning you guys about it coming. Heh. Well, buncha midterms to do before spring break and a tiiiiight schedule. A few professors are nice and pushed things to after spring break. Other professors are b-holes and pushed it to BEFORE spring break. MMMPHHHH!**

* * *

Malik flexed his left arm. A displeased sneer settled on his face; the limb was weak and stiff, but it was better than one arm alone. The Abstergo van hummed behind him, its engine idling without a driver inside. An expanse of dry woodland lined the road, a blue lake and pleasant small town not far away. Malik stepped away from the quiet road, toward the forest before him. "Out!" he demanded.

Haytham emerged from the underbrush cautiously, his hands raised as a sign of peace. "I do not intend to harm you- Malik, is it?"

Warily analyzing his blade, Malik answered, "Who desires to know, a Templar?"

"Not on the side of Abstergo, however." Haytham smiled thinly. "I suspect you are not either?"

Malik crossed his arms. "Yes, now what is it you want?"

Haytham stopped a short distance from Malik. At this range, they both might attack and retreat respectively. Haytham shifted his pack farther over his shoulder, emitting confidence as he spoke, "We can work together to nullify the threat Abstergo poses currently. Namely that of capturing an important person." Furrowing his brow a moment, he asked, "Are you with other Abstergo agents?"

Turning with a flourish, Malik pulled open the sliding door of the van to reveal a tangled mess of dead bodies. "Not precisely, as you can see," he gestured.

"Ah," Haytham gave a nod, suppressing his brief surprise. "Well, what do you say, then? Join me and the other resurrected Assassins."

Malik scowled. "I was told Altair is the cause of this trouble with a hostage, Desmond, or whoever it is they spoke of. It would serve me best to work without the like of any Templars involved."

"You believe what the Abstergo Templars tell you?"

"Hmph," Malik made a dismissive gesture. "I do not believe any Templar. It seems believable Altair would return to the world as much an arrogant and reckless man as he was in the life I knew him. But perhaps," he tilted his head, remembering, "there is a chance he has retained the wisdom of his later years."

Haytham thoughtfully tilted his head. With some reluctance, he began helping Malik to drag the corpses from the van. "I would not call him a rogue, but he is a non-genial sort of person."

"I will meet him and give you my verdict- _maybe_," huffed Malik, shoving a body downhill. "I do not owe you anything."

"Where were they sending you?" Finished, Haytham stepped around the car, unfazed by Malik's abrasiveness.

"I was meant to arrive here tomorrow, I decided to leave prior to that date." Malik swiftly barred Haytham from the driver's seat.

Pausing, Haytham raised a brow. "You can drive?"

"Ah!" Malik scrunched his face. "So you do?"

A touch of smugness laced Haytham's voice, "Yes, Abstergo versed me in these industrial ways."

"Good, I've learned it in a day," said Malik, sitting behind the wheel.

Haytham skeptically stood by. "It would be best for me to drive, I trust I can find them easier."

Malik leaned on his elbow out the window. "I do not trust you at all! I have decent enough coordinates."

Swiftly, Haytham removed his pack from his shoulder to display its contents. Malik stiffened for an instant as he peered at the slightly glowing, unnatural objects within. To Haytham's surprise, he still upheld a bristling demeanor: "Well, it will not do to have you stumbling about with those- get in."

Haytham gave a disdainful face but conceded. He climbed into the passenger seat and plopped the pack between his feet. Before he had buckled his seatbelt, Malik's foot flattened the gas pedal to the floor. Haytham jerked back, grasping frantically at his hat as the vehicle accelerated forward. The tires screeched over the asphalt, drowning out Haytham's frustrated yelp.

* * *

"Hold on," Desmond called. He nearly slipped, barely catching himself by the side of his foot on a branch.

Connor paused between the trees. Sunlight streamed around him as his shoulders blocked the late afternoon rays. The man breathed evenly compared to Desmond's huffing. "Did you injure something?" asked Connor.

Supprting himself against a tree trunk, Desmond doubled over to catch his breath. "No," he panted, "I'm tired. We've been hiking and leaping through here for hours. Can I get a break?"

"We're almost there, Altair is at the farm house," Connor pointed to the edge of the trees, toward a stout abode alongside a green pasture and stone barn.

Sorely moving on, Desmond peeled himself from the tree and followed Connor down. Twigs crunched under his weathered shoes as he left the canopy of trees. Connor rounded the corner of the home ahead of him. Desmond dragged his legs onward, scraping by the wall. He glanced down at the soft ground, a welcoming resting place. Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to see Altair, Ezio, and Connor rejoining. To his delight, they had horses. _Good, I can rest while the horse carries me_.

Altair mounted a thin bay while Ezio sat on a tall red roan gelding. Connor took the reins of a blue roan mare, offering the last horse, a short gray, to Desmond.

"Hopefully he knows how to ride," Altair muttered. "We must hike to the coast and take a vessel by sea to America."

"Ah, I am a master of the art!" exclaimed Ezio. He eagerly leaned toward Desmond from his saddle, saying, "You are a beginner, no?"

Desmond squinted at the stirrup, tentatively attempting to figure out the mechanics of boarding such a creature. "Yeah," he replied.

Gladly, Ezio guided Desmond how to mount his steed. The older horse twitched its whiskered lip and sighed, falling asleep as Desmond clambered on ungracefully. Once astride the animal, he grasped the reins and urged it forward, flicking the reins and nudging it with his heels. The horse swiveled an ear back, otherwise giving no response. Desmond looked back at Ezio confusedly.

Demonstrating with his own horse, Ezio exaggerated a jabbing motion with his heel. "Bump him, do not move the rest of your body, just bump-bump him along now."

Still, no success.

"Harder!"

_So much for taking a rest. _Desmond kicked the horse as strong as he could with his straining legs. Finally, the stout beast gave a snort and heaved a leg forward, then another, and stopped. Connor leaned far out of his saddle to grab the reins from Desmond wordlessly. Urging his horse into a trot, Connor pulled Desmond's deadweight horse along. The chubby gelding plodded on resentfully. Desmond found himself needing to hold his body upright and exert effort to keep his legs in place. After no more than four strides up a hill, he was more tired than he was jumping across tree limbs. Altair cantered at the head of the group while Ezio and Connor took turns trying to guide Desmond. Under a canopy of trees once more, Ezio relieved Connor of his position and led Desmond's horse. Once Connor was a fair ways up the deer trail by Altair, Ezio kindly asked Desmond, "How are you faring?"

"Not well," Desmond grunted. "I can't feel my legs at this point."

Raising a finger, Ezio thoughtfully said, "I have an idea, it is something to help you rest; there, cross your leg over the horse's neck."

Desmond did as instructed, finding it difficult to balance himself. He managed the feat, sitting somewhat sideways. "Yeah, that is better- thanks."

Ezio smiled. "I know, it is the way ladies ride."

Reddening in his face, Desmond grumbled, "Of course."

"A gentleman," he pressed a hand to his heart, "atop his own proud stallion would lead a beautiful signora on her even-tempered mount just as this."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Well, it's harder to balance than I thought."

"Oh yes, you make quite an ugly signora, Desmond," laughed Ezio.

"Alright," Desmond scooted himself back into position, a leg on either side of the horse again "How am I supposed to do it?"

Ezio regally sat upright, relaxed. "You must take your strength from your core and relax the shoulders but do not drop them, sì, like that."

The position was coming naturally to Desmond, though he felt himself trying to force it to come; all his ancestors seemed to be able to ride on horseback, the instinct to do so should be strong for him. Yet he found his legs still wobbly and unseemly. Ezio waved it off, saying, "Ah, we will get to the legs later. It comes with time."

Connor came trotting back to them, saying, "There is a single road ahead. Altair says it is quiet, but take no chances."

Desmond advanced down a slight slope, his horse slowing when Ezio released the reins. The horse either became extra careful with its footing or seized the opportunity to lazily drift behind. At the lowest point of the path ahead the road crossed north to south. Desmond glanced up at the sun amid the cloudy sky to be sure he was heading west. Ezio's horse crossed the road after Connor's, producing a sharp clattering noise of hoof on asphalt. Desmond hoped his snail of a horse would continue. Praise the lord it did; the gelding sniffed at the ground with some interest briefly but did not halt. Ezio waited for Desmond to near him, starting up the slope again once they were alongside one another. Again Desmond's horse had to be irately dragged forward by Ezio.

Over the slope, Ezio peered at the forest, saying, "It seems we've fallen behind a bit. What do you see?"

Desmond focused, gazing at the world with unique sight. "Is your own vision broken or something?" he asked.

"Somewhat," Ezio confessed, "It seems our memories and abilities are stranger in this lifetime. So, how is yours?"

"I see..." Desmond squinted at the shapes in the distance, recognizing color. "Blue, yellow... red."

Ezio gripped his reins. "Where is the one marked foe?"

Pointing toward a thicket, Desmond cautiously followed Ezio toward it. His horse refused to do much more than trod slowly behind Ezio's mount either way. Ezio drove his horse to a canter for a moment, and pulled it to a halt quickly. "Altair?"

Appearing around the underbrush on his bay gelding, Altair gazed back at Ezio. "What do you want? Go take up the rear again."

"Are you sure there is no one else here?" Ezio glanced back at Desmond.

Befuddled, Desmond looked around. "I don't get it, Altair is red."

Pressing his hand to his brow, Altair growled, "If you want my attention, you are going to get it."

Desmond stared back at the forest. "Now I see blue, blue. Just faintly; but I saw something yellow earlier."

"That is enough for today," Altair dismounted. "Exhaustion must be getting to your frail mind."

Finally a break. Despite Altair's bitter words, Desmond gladly slid off his horse. His legs felt like mere threads, what was not numb was warm and painful. As they were settling, a voiced drenched in ire sounded nearby: "Here you are, of all places."

The group turned to see a man standing squarely a short distance away. Desmond was surprised none of them had heard him approach. In his eagle vision the man was yellow, shifting from this Desmond could see a dark blue Abstergo jacket hung on his slim frame. A look of scorn darkened his features. Something about him intimidated Desmond, a wave of hard-tempered anger and strength radiated from him. Relief washed over him as he saw Altair step forward; Altair was likely the group's best fighter, their most clever and skilled Assassin.

"Malik, how are you-?" Altair began.

A sharp crack sounded as the man's fist met Altair's face. Droplets of crimson splattered over Altair's already stained hoodie, now with his own blood.

"DAMN NOVICE!" Malik shouted.

Ezio uneasily looked between them, exchanging stares with Desmond.

"Holy fuck."

"Santa merda..."

* * *

**All the love in this one, eh? Ha. Well, to person who gave me the previous suggestion, don't fret, it should come up... ehhh... in the next chapter or the one after, and it's gonna be great. SHH. Don't say it though. It's still a secret owo**

**MWGH! Whitefox is right, I made the colors too confusing. Fixed it at 4:06 EST 3/2. I was trying to be sneaky; Haytham was the first blue Desmond saw, yellow is Malik, red has been Altair. The second time he looks around he sees two blue; that's Haytham and Connor together.**


	15. Haytham's Way

**So again, I didn't play or read the full extent of AC (Forsaken, extra Kenway, etc.), and I've been getting input ascertaining some important accuracies, but overall... I apologize. It just ain't gon be perf. It's an AU anyway, but eh... Sorry for any irritation over that. Once I'm done with this feel free to rewrite it or continue it on your own, I will attempt a good ending in a some more chapters but am going to leave it open enough to continue if desired.**

**Holy shit it's been almost two weeks. Whoops.**

* * *

Old leaves scraped against the railing by Shay. Sitting at a white table outside, he chewed his sandwich pensively and looked out at the Abstergo courtyard. Due to Malik's escape, he had spent the entire previous twenty-five hours on his feet, indoors, without any memory of eating, sleeping, or otherwise caring for himself. Releasing Haytham was one thing, he had not expected Malik to disappear on the same day. Malik's purpose was to confront Altair anyway, if he did so on his own the matter was not different. If Malik joined the Assassins, he would not go far; he had only a few hours' acclimation to present-day society. A group of six Assassins made a larger target to Shay. He felt the weight of judgment on his shoulders: he needed to produce results for Berg. Realistically, he doubted they would kill him for betrayal, if they found out, or his apparent failure. The Animus was always an option, and Vidic was partial to any research opportunities.

"Hey there," greeted Lucy.

Shay looked up, somewhat puzzled at a trace of surprise on her face. "My apologies," he offered, "I only needed a short break."

"No, no," she waved, "That's alright, I'm just surprised to see you..."

"Eating?"

Lucy smiled, sitting across from him. "Being human, I think. It's still a shock, you know; I'm a bit in awe, you're a living, breathing historical figure."

"Hm," Shay shrugged slightly, returning to his turkey sandwich.

"What's it like, having a second life?"

The genuine curiosity in Lucy's eyes urged him to respond. Shay thought for a moment as he swallowed. "I can't remember the first one very well, I suppose it..." The idea of a second life entirely presented itself to him. He had pushed it out of his mind a few times to focus, but in all honesty; why spend it like this? Nonsense, it was likely his old rebellious side acting up. No one knew how long the resurrected Templars and Assassins would live, but then again, were ordinary lives so different?

"I suppose it feels like a mere continuation," he concluded, gazing back at the courtyard.

"Boring, you mean?"

A smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. Glancing back at Lucy, he said, "Only as of late."

Leaning forward, Lucy looked like an excited, round-eyed child in Shay's presence. "It brings so many possibilities though! How would Charles Lee live a second life here, or Aveline de Grandpre, maybe even Blackbeard or-?"

"Shouldn't bring Charles back," muttered Shay. "There is no point to it."

A man in a white laboratory coat almost ran past them. Stumbling to a halt, he panted, "The... the Artifacts are gone!"

Lucy jumped up at an instant. Shay rose, feigning surprise, while he growled under his breath, "Damn it all, Haytham."

* * *

After the flash of sudden violence between Malik and Altair, Desmond's horse actually moved. Altair's steed shied in fright while Desmond's gray gelding followed. Evidently that was the extent of the fat horse's energy, for it almost immediately began to sleep again. Desmond shrank back from Altair and Malik, looking to Ezio for guidance. The Italian groped for the horse's reins, muttering, "Let's, ah... calm the horses."

While Desmond secured his short, dozing steed, Malik continued to rail at Altair: "You cannot simply carry out an easy task in the living world, with _THREE _other master Assassins? Why are you not mastering the Brotherhood again, Altair, where is the leadership and skills men of our lifetime died for all under the belief that you" he shoved a finger in Altair's bleeding face "were a competent Assassin!" Crossing his arms, Malik seethed, "Now I have to watch you fumbling about like a blind man again. I have lived that already, you fool, I've no desire for a second round."

Altair was silent, working his jaw back and forth gingerly. He bled from his lip and nose, rapidly developing a bruise. Holding a hand to his chin, he spat. A green, shiny metal object plopped onto his palm within a globule of bloody saliva.

"A chip?" Desmond squinted, confused. In doing so he briefly changed his vision, seeing Malik as yellow again, and now Altair as blue. "That's why you were red..."

"Did you ever stop to think how Abstergo could follow you?" Malik snapped.

"I..." Altair spoke slowly, still shaken. A string of bloody spittle hung on his lip. "I did not know I was tracked as well, we only altered Haytham's device."

Malik slapped the shard out of Altair's hand, hissing, "You are welcome, I've remedied one of your many problems."

To Desmond's relief, a tone of arrogance returned to Altair as he retorted, "You could have broken any of my teeth!"

"Be grateful, I have already given you more help than you deserve."

Hooves plodded along the soft earth as Connor approached. He held his horse's reins in one hand, walking beside his father. Haytham regarded Altair and Malik with a bemused, surprised expression. "So," he began easily, "What is your verdict, then?"

Connor sized up Malik, prepared to attack. Malik stood unfazed, replying, "I am the least of your worries." Suddenly rounding on Desmond, he asked, "Who is this?"

Answering automatically, Desmond blurted out his name and pointed to Altair, adding, "... his descendent."

"Of course," Malik sighed. "You look like him; a face only a blind mother could love."

Clouds gathered overhead. A cold breeze caressed the back of Desmond's neck. Shivering, he listened. As Haytham began to speak, Ezio cautiously attempted to wipe the mess off Altair's chin.

"It would be best to go with my _original plan_," Haytham eyed the group, suggesting his former plan had not gone over well the first time. "We leave for London."

Altair bent away from Ezio's reach, like a cat avoiding a brush. "We still ought to return Desmond to America," he said. "London is not familiar to any of us except you, and then much closer to Shay's known territory."

Showing his palms in a gesture of plainness, Haytham offered, "Do you have a better idea? I already have the means in place for this, both you and Ezio have had your chances with your own ways. Now we do it my way."

"No problema here," said Ezio. "I agree with Haytham."

Malik rolled his eyes. "Good enough."

Desmond shrugged, muttering, "Alright, though Altair and Connor are the only ones who haven't been captured... Altair missed the chip though." Looking to Connor, he asked, "It should be up to you, what do you think?"

The group expectantly stared at Connor. The Assassin thoughtfully gazed between his father and Altair. Some measure of fondness sparked in his eyes when he looked at Haytham, no hostility arose when he regarded Altair. "I agree with my father," he nodded, "We go to London, and then join the Assassins in America."

A faint look of defeat shadowed Altair. Desmond felt pity for him. Finally Ezio touched his face, dabbing the blood off with the cuff of his sleeve. Altair gave him a half-hearted glare. As they reorganized to leave, Altair hung back. Malik easily mounted Altair's horse, and Desmond scrambled up onto his own mount. With Haytham, Connor, and Malik heading the group, they advanced toward the roadside. From there, Haytham instructed they would pass the van they had abandoned and travel north. They would reach a dockside business, one Haytham had become acquainted with while in the good graces of Abstergo previously. Over a day and a half, they would travel by sea to London. Thinking the plan out in his head, Desmond continued to look over his shoulder at Altair. Even with Desmond's lazy horse being pulled along by Ezio at a snail's pace, Altair was lagging. Altair slowed, visible just by the shadows of the trees. Sneaking a glance at Ezio, Desmond silently pleaded with him. Ezio gave an understanding nod. Thankful, Desmond dismounted and ran back to Altair. Under the man's hood, he could see the dried blood still clinging to his jaw.

"What do you want?" Altair grumbled, not expressly angry.

Desmond scratched the back of his head, trying to think of something. _Genius, _he thought to himself, _I didn't think of anything to say._ "So... Can you tell me what you used to do, what you remember?"

Rubbing the dried blood off his face, Altair sighed. "What do you want to know, shouldn't you be talking to Ezio for some tale of adventure?"

"No," Desmond managed a laugh. "I'm serious, come on. I want to know more about what you did. I think I had some memories about you, how did you do that leap of faith when the Templars came to challenge Al-Mualim?"

The tiniest smile crept up Altair's face. "Well..."

* * *

**Are they getting along? My god, I think they're getting along. Lookit dat.**

**Yeah this was short and a bit rushed halfway. Meh! I felt all bogged down. Anyway. Thank you for your continued interest and I hope your high school or college semesters are going well!**

**The surprise is coming in the next chapter, no rushing that one, it must. be. glorious.**

**Further update: I'm so fucking sorry it didn't come this weekend, (3/22) it was supposed to. Guess who moved all the exams into the same week. Yeah. Fantastic. Expect the next chapter to be at least 3k words next week (this weekend at the earliest), hopefully a worthwhile sucker of 4-5k. Thanks.**


	16. Abandonment

**Life, uh, finds a way.**

**Apologies for the bigass delay. Funny. I upload often and get a big ol' chunk of stuff in the way like this. Hmphrhrhph. But, I passed all my finals! Woo woo!**

* * *

_October_

Slime coated Desmond's tongue. Dark blue waves lapped against the ship hull, carrying the contents of his stomach. Desmond interlocked cold fingers behind his neck. His empty belly pressed against the icy rail. One day had gone by well enough on the cargo ship to a needed stop, France. Something about the second day at sea on the ship from southern France to London finally unnerved him. A steady din of noise rose on the deck; the twenty-something passengers aboard each finishing their duties for the morning. Desmond groaned quietly to himself, feeling the whole ship rock and sway. Feeling as if he could tumble over the rail, he stepped back. An empty bench by the tarp-covered crates welcomed him. Clutching his stomach, he sat in uneasy silence. The weather was already growing colder than he was accustomed to. If he could have it his way, he would be curled up in his cabin, tangled up in his blankets with Ezio nearby humming a gentle tune and Haytham and Connor playing chess. Altair was talkative for a short while, enough to satiate Desmond's curiosity for the time being. Once Malik began correcting him on his memories, Altair assumed his regular distance. The two seemed on rough terms for now, though some kind of friendship existed. Desmond started to rise, thinking he would return to bed. A wave of nausea coincided with the tide again, causing him to heavily plop back down. _Right, that's why I'm not in bed right now... Don't want to puke indoors._

High atop the storage crates, Connor stood up. The leather overcoat he acquired for the trip fit him well, despite his muttered protests about the lack of tailors in the modern world. Desmond's group had all donned different clothes after recognizing their pictures on the news broadcasts. Personally, Desmond was rather proud of the short beard he was working on- it was very similar to the one Ezio was growing out. Altair and Haytham refused to do the same. Altair claimed he did not even need to change his own appearance, due to the only picture Abstergo managing to capture of him being a gray blur. Desmond smiled at the memory, having thought, _Damn, he really is that good._ At the rest of the group's urging, Altair opted for a white sleeveless hoodie over his bloodstained gray one, and darker pants. Ezio and Haytham seemed to be in an unspoken rivalry for best-dressed of the group, ending with Ezio favoring his Italian fashion and Haytham diverging into English style. In each of their minds they had won, with only Haytham remarking the group ought to fit their appearances to their environment better. He had said it with a sort of sneer and slow walk, so Desmond guessed he had actually been outclassed.

Either way, watching a petty fashion dispute unfold was preferable to being nauseas out on the gelid deck. Desmond swallowed the pooling saliva under his tongue and tried to stretch. Tarp crunched and squeaked as Connor approached. Jumping down, he inquired, "Are you sick?"

Desmond wiped the thin layer of sweat from his brow. "Yeah, kind of- just sea sick."

Connor went to sit by Desmond. A look of confusion settled about him as he hesitated, a foot on the bench. Desmond almost laughed, if not for his churning gut. "It's a bench, Connor, you can't sit backward on it," he smirked.

Sitting normally, Connor awkwardly shook his head. "Well..."

"It's fine, I guess that sort of thing doesn't happen often to an assassin. Like putting the car keys in the freezer and all of a sudden wondering what the hell you just did."

Connor forced a cough, resting his elbows on his knees. "I was going to ask how Altair's story ended, I missed it last night."

Desmond hugged a knee to his chest and racked his brains. God, he just felt _awful_. "Right," he said, remembering, "Altair found out Al Mualim was the one with the Apple."

"Ah," Connor murmured.

"Is something wrong with you, too?"

Shifting, Connor fumbled with his gloves. "My father has been acting strange."

Desmond gave a sidelong glance at Connor. "You saying that because he wouldn't let you cut your hair?"

"No!" Connor snapped. "He didn't- he_ persuaded_ me to keep it this way." He waved a hand fruitlessly. "Something about _no Mohawks in London_. No, I can tell something is off about him."

Wood creaked under Desmond as he turned away. He watched one of the crewmen run from the navigational bridge, down beneath the deck. A small spark of interest kindled in Desmond. He gazed back at Connor, suddenly wanting to end the conversation to investigate.

"I'm going to find out why," said Connor, steadfast. He fixed a determined glare past the storage crates.

Desmond followed his glare, spotting Haytham and the crewman hurrying to the bridge. Haytham ignored his son's suspicious greeting as he went by. Connor irritably trod after his father. Before Desmond could stagger off toward them, he felt a firm grip on his shoulder. Strangely enough, there stood Altair.

Somewhat surprised to see him, and reeling from the waves, Desmond nodded dumbly. "Hey," he mumbled, "wassa matta you, Altair?"

"Is that how you think I sound?" Altair stared back at him, not amused. He held something out in his hand, cocking his head to the side.

Desmond took the item, asking, "What's this?"

"Ginger, it should help your stomach."

"Thanks." Sucking on the generous slice of root, Desmond started toward the navigational bridge. "What's going on up there?"

Altair seamlessly took the lead, advancing to the iron staircase. "Let's find out."

The ship rocked again under Desmond's feet. A sullen squeak sounded from the rail as he held onto it. "I'm kind of surprised you're doing okay, since we're at sea, you know-" Desmond looked up to see Altair's knuckles showing white with his grip on the rail. "Uh..."

"What," Altair hissed through clenched teeth.

"Nothing! Nothing." _So that's why he wandered off. Poor guy probably hid under a table somewhere with his tail between his legs._

Once they reached the bridge, the weight of the situation slammed down on them. The crew spoke quickly, worriedly, while Haytham and Malik tensely guarded over the radio controls. Altair kept a safe distance from Malik while Desmond approached. Amid the chaos unfolding, Desmond prodded Haytham for an answer. The man laid his hands on the windowsill before him. With brittle composure, he replied, "We're being tailed by someone-"

"_Abstergo_, of course," snorted Malik. "Who else would hack a cargo ship's damned system?"

"But no one would _know _this bloody route!" Haytham dug his nails into his palms. "I made sure." He glared distrustfully at Malik, adding, "What have you to say?"

Malik's face flushed red. Dangerously close to Haytham's face, he began to menace, "Unlike a Templar, I do not go back on my word. And unlike a Templar, I finish what I start-"

As Malik's scorn promptly reared its head, a sharp noise of static rose from the radio. Desmond leaned in to make sense of the sound. He soon found himself squished against the others. Altair listened from the other side of the room, seeming relieved Malik and Haytham had not come to blows. A dusky, accented voice came over the intercom, "_Hello, hello, Assassins_!"

Behind him, Desmond heard Altair hook a finger inside his own mouth, as if searching for another tracking device. Desmond followed his thoughts, searching for any clues that would have given them away. The only link among them would have to be Malik.

"_If you would so please, perhaps you could come to a halt_?" the male voice droned.

Malik and Haytham both reached for the radio at the same time. With unexpected speed, Desmond reflexively grabbed the receiver to shout, "Over my dead body!" Swiftly clapping it down, he looked back at the two men beside him. "Who has a tracking device?" he demanded.

Stirred again, the two both snarled, "Not me!"

"Well, one of you has it!" Desmond countered.

Haytham pointed to the healing scar on his body, saying, "I took mine out, I assure you I checked everything."

The radio was drawling more garbage from the voice, goading them. A gunshot rang out, alarming the clustered group. Haytham immediately shoved his way to the main door, looking outside with a concerned expression. Desmond managed to join him, seeing another large ship in the distance in front of them. Another bullet hit a storage crate. Out on the deck Connor darted between the boxes. Desmond confusedly thought aloud, "Who's shooting that far away?"

"Shay," growled Haytham. "Altair, you need to bring Connor back here," he spoke quickly, "I sent him to retrieve the Pieces of Eden below deck."

Eyeing him askance, Altair repeated, "_Pieces_?"

"No, I'll get it," Desmond offered, shouldering his way past Haytham. _Altair is probably more nauseas than I am._

"Novice!" barked Malik. "Get out there!"

Desmond bumped into Altair as they simultaneously moved out the door. "Who...?" they gestured toward each other.

Malik thunderously slammed his fist against the wall, screaming, "BOTH, NOW!"

The two scrambled from him like geese from a butcher. Desmond briefly forgot his stomach in the rush of fright, seeking whatever refuge existed from the black-eyed, roaring beast nearby. He succeeded in reaching the middle of the deck when his gut knotted itself resolutely in a devil's fist. Again over the rail, he tossed the ginger root to the greedy abyss. Acid burned his throat. For a long moment he could not tell if the sea was inside his skull or his blood was gathering at his temples. Spitting, he gathered himself upright again. The coastline of England stretched before him, on the left side of the ship. Taking account of his surroundings, he further noticed the dark ship now traveling toward him at a quick pace. Across its white flag blazed a red Templar cross. Desmond tripped backward toward the bridge, heart rate rising. Connor appeared from behind the crates at a low run. Grabbing Desmond as he passed, he hauled him along to the bridge as another shot bit into the deck. Connor practically threw Desmond back into the room with little effort. Sending his father a dirty look, he held out a black bag. Malik's hand shot out first, snatching the bag. Desmond stood with his back braced against the wall to give them all space; the tension in the room was almost audibly crackling.

After briefly fumbling with the contents of the bag, Malik raged, "You didn't check the Pieces for trackers!"

Haytham seemed taken aback for a split second. "I was not the only one who transported them," he rounded. "You were fully cognizant. Now," he returned to his serious demeanor, "we must avoid that ship."

"It's approaching too quickly to change course," Connor pointed out. "The coast of England is close enough."

Travel by one of the simple rafts on the ship would be too slow, and an open target. Desmond asked, "What about Altair?"

"As good a time to learn as any," Malik muttered, glancing past Desmond with a grimace. "There's a motorboat and gunmen on the way."

Desmond craned his neck to see the slim white boat halt against their ship. Malik began systemically removing thin tracker chips from the Pieces. A loud crunch sounded as Malik closed his fist on a handful of the trackers.

"How do you know so much?" Haytham suspiciously questioned. "You were hardly educated for a day regarding the modern world."

Malik grunted. "I passed Abstergo's childish computerized exams and learning modules in six hours."

Connor peered at his father curiously. "I thought those took you a week to complete," he mused.

"I believe Ezio is entirely without aid below deck," said Haytham, with an edge of annoyance. Connor curled his lip haughtily as he left. As Desmond attempted to follow Connor to the stairs, Haytham stood in his way. "Time to jump ship, Desmond." He nodded toward the opposite exit. "Swim to shore while we sort things here."

Before Desmond could protest, Malik shoved the obscure bag into his hands and propelled him out the door. As he stumbled along the stairs, he heard the fight unfold on the deck. Someone hit a storage crate hard, a bullet whizzed by Desmond's shoulder. Leaping off the staircase, Desmond bolted for the fray. At the least, he had to take Altair with him. The hope that Ezio or Connor would help Altair swim was not enough to allay his fears. He almost stepped directly in the line of fire between a rusting blue crate and three armed agents. No human eyes were visible behind their navy blue glasses. A woman mechanically swept by the crate, clearing the opposite corner. Her vulnerable back invited an attack. Desmond flexed the hidden blade on his wrist, and took a hesitant step toward her. His blood chilled in his veins. _I can't do it._

A hand clapped over Desmond's mouth, another yanked him back by his jacket. As he was pulled behind the crate Connor sped by, stabbing the woman. Her muffled shriek made Desmond wince. Connor's momentum lifted her off the ground, throwing her back down roughly. The person holding Desmond spun him around, pinning him against the crate.

"Get off the ship," Altair ordered lowly. His new white sweatshirt already had a streak of blood on the hood. "Swim for the shore."

Desmond nodded, urging Altair to follow. The other two agents thundered by in pursuit of Connor. Refusing, Altair pushed Desmond away. Beyond them another motorboat had arrived, bringing Shay with it. Haytham was already advancing toward him along the tops of the crates.

"You know you can't swim, just come with me!" argued Desmond.

Altair roughly pulled Desmond's jacket off, saying, "You are the priority, not me." He removed his white hoodie and threw it at Desmond. "Wear this and keep the hood up- _now_."

Irritably, Desmond did as told, holding the Pieces of Eden tightly afterward. Haytham had reached Shay, as well as the fight Connor had amassed by the stern. A dense tangle of bodies concealed Ezio beside him. Desmond reflexively moved toward them. Without any heartfelt farewell, Altair hooked an arm under Desmond's leg and hurled him over the rail. Desmond fell headfirst into the cold, dark water. He struggled to right himself in the rippling wave around the cargo ship. Clawing to the surface, he panicked. _Dammit__, I dropped the bag! _He took a shallow nasal breath and dove back under. The ship seemed to suck him in another direction. Practically blind, he swam downward. The fabric of the bag grazed his fingers. Reaching as far as he could, he groped for it. The temperature shocked all his senses, hampering his efforts. His lungs burned. At last he gripped the knot closing the bag. He tried to swim upward, feeling as though he were lost in a numbing void. A strong arm drug him out of the depths. His waterlogged hood hung over his eyes. Coughing, he clung to the man.

"Altair is not the only poor swimmer, eh!" Ezio said with relief in his voice.

Desmond crossed his arms around Ezio's neck to keep himself afloat. "This fucking bag..." he spluttered.

"Hm?" Ezio shifted Desmond on his back as he swam toward the coast.

"Haytham had Pieces of Eden."

Ezio made an interested noise. "I did not hear that, only Altair had an Apple. I wonder what he brought."

More splashing sounded around Desmond. Unable to move the hood from his eyes, he listened.

"Is Desmond alright?" asked Connor.

"Here," he rasped. "I'm fine."

"No sign of the hooded idiot, I see," said Malik. Pausing, he added, "There's Haytham, just in time."

Desmond tilted his head, ungracefully flipping his hood back. "In time for what?"

His relief at seeing the group unharmed turned to horror- the navigational bridge erupted in flames. The entire stern exploded next, echoing like thunder. A splintered board flew over Desmond's head. Haytham calmly neared them, saying, "All according to plan, I should say."

"What the fuck!" Desmond exclaimed. "What about Altair and the crew?"

Malik hushed him curtly. "Quiet! We are trying to get by undetected."

"Altair should have gone with the members who took a motorboat," Haytham explained. "Never mind him."

_Should, _thought Desmond. _Should. _

They reached the rocky shore of Hastings undisturbed. Haytham immediately assumed leadership of the group without issue. Malik fell into Altair's former place at the fringe, neither accepting Haytham or challenging him directly. A motorboat did go by with the crew members aboard with Abstergo giving chase, though too quick and far away for Desmond to see Altair among them. Desmond felt the same as he had when Ezio was left behind in Florence; anxious over Altair's well-being, though innately sensed he was still alive. The atmosphere of safety only set him on edge worse now, with the town of Hastings emptied. A biohazard sign branded by Abstergo stood at the edge of the town, glaringly bright. Haytham guessed Abstergo had used some biochemical threat as a cover to clear the area for Assassin aid. At least at the outskirts of the town, they had neglected to place any traps behind. All their efforts seemed to have been focused on their naval attack.

"Just in case," Malik muttered, tugging Desmond's wet hood up, "keep this on."

Haytham breathed deeply, surveying the empty town. A look of satisfaction settled about him. Connor sneezed and wiped his face with the back of his hand. "It's decent," he commented.

Ezio climbed to the rooftops. "This is very nice place, Haytham."

"Not much has changed, thankfully," Haytham replied. He strode forward with his wet coat over his shoulder. They were all tired and wet, Desmond could only hope they would assume an easy pace long enough to dry.

"I take it you didn't like New York?" said Desmond.

Haytham wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It hasn't changed, either."

"So," said Connor, reluctantly, "about the Pieces, father?"

"What about them? Speak like an adult, son, use sentences."

Connor scowled. "Why did you take them without telling any of us?"

Gesturing to Malik, Haytham pointed out, "One of you knew, it is not as if I go around keeping secrets."

"You sound defensive."

Haytham swung one leg in front of the other, nonchalant. "Not at all. I merely took an opportunity when I saw it."

"What's in the bag?"

Stiffening, Haytham spoke firmly, "Pieces of Eden- that is all, leave it be."

Connor approached Desmond with a hand outstretched, saying, "Let me see."

"_Do not_," Haytham commanded, stopping. "Desmond, give it to me."

Desmond froze, close to giving the bag to Connor. He stood between the glowering Kenways like a pigeon between alley cats. Raising his hands innocently, he said, "Come on, guys, let's not get..." _Time to run._

He bolted on sore legs. Before Connor tackled him, he threw the bag to Ezio. A sharp snap resounded in his wrist as he struck the ground. Connor rolled off him without an apology, intently gazing toward Ezio as he opened the bag. An otherworldly glow lit the Italian's face from the items within. He smiled at Haytham, saying, "The Shroud, Apple, and Ankh."

"What," growled Connor, "Were you planning to raise someone?"

Haytham huffed, turning back to his walk. "No... Rather, to avoid that. I remember you held those Pieces before, Ezio, I believe you ought to safeguard them again."

"Do you not trust me?" Connor snapped.

Narrowing his eyes, Haytham said, "Do not take offense when I say you are not the most reliable of the group."

"What do you mean!"

Desmond slowly rose, cradling his wrist. "Different problem here," he interrupted. "My arm's broke."

Haytham brought a hand to his face, sighing. "This is exactly what I mean."

While Connor and Haytham argued, Malik approached Desmond. "Come, there must be an infirmary of sorts in this place."

Desmond complied, glad to leave the quarreling behind. They walked between the pastel colored houses quietly. The English Channel gently lapped at the shores nearby, lazily gliding over the rocks. Sunlight peeked behind the clouds, tracing the edges of doorframes and windowsills. More clouds gathered slowly. Desmond almost bumped into Malik by a white building, realizing his mind had gone blank. He sat on a clean bench while he waited for Malik to retrieve supplies. The bit of red blood on Altair's wet hood still rested as a red stain, as if fresh. Desmond looked between it and his swelling wrist, then to the darker clouds_. _A short laugh escaped him. _Altair is probably out there with the same problem. Maybe he's a little banged up and avoiding the storm with the crew._

* * *

"Be careful with him!"

"We're trying, he bit me!"

Altair dug his heels into the floor. The Abstergo officers dragged him into the captain's quarters with titanic effort. Bluish fluorescent light illuminated the scar over Altair's lip. He kept his head down and his center of gravity low, providing as much of a challenge to move as a solid boulder. However, a lifeless rock did not push back with the force Altair mustered. A hand clamped down on the back of his neck, forcing him to his knees. He gritted his teeth and became still, avoiding the eyes of his captor. The man came to face him, kneeling to speak.

"Well, now, this is the Desmond Miles I have heard so much about."

A fleck of spittle hit Altair's brow. He looked up briefly to spit at the man, long enough to discern his features. The object of his hatred had an ugly kind of mustache and small eyes, a common-looking person faintly similar to Haytham in ethnicity. Altair guessed the man was English or some near origin. He inwardly seethed at the idea of a Templar-employed man who knew the area, for it was precisely what he had railed against earlier. Only Haytham was truly familiar with England, Connor had lived in North America, Ezio in Italy, and himself in Syria. Despite the progress they had made thus far, Altair was slow to trust the former Templar.

"Roberts," said a blonde woman. "Let's just verify this with Dr. Vidic."

With his face pointedly turned toward the floor, Altair could only guess the man called Roberts had meant to strike him before the woman spoke. Roberts indignantly moved away, wiping the saliva from his cheek. Beyond them, Shay entered the room.

"I saw Altair jump overboard with Ezio," he informed. "Malik and the others must have gone toward Hastings."

Both he and Altair scarcely glanced at each other. Shay's eye wandered to Altair's hand. A silent understanding passed between them. Surprisingly, Shay looked away and remained silent. Altair wondered what allegiance the man really owed to either side. Whichever way he leaned, Altair considered no such indecision as the mark of an ally. For now Shay would remain a weak link in the Templar Order, and nothing more.

"My name is Lucy." The woman was trying to build some rapport with Altair now. As if he could be bothered. "I'm sorry about this, Desmond, we're just trying to help you. Please cooperate."

"So that's him, isn't it?" Roberts grunted.

"Well..." Lucy looked from the computer by the desk to Altair. She tilted her head, straining to look at his face. That was good- little difference could be seen from his face. They would soon notice a different feature. "There's the scar, the nose and jaw... it's him. Right?" she urged him, "Can you speak?"

Altair glared out of the corner of his eye. "Hmph."

Lucy shifted back to Roberts, unfazed. "We need to move away from the storm to contact our superior, I can't get a good signal here."

"My dear," he puffed himself up magnanimously, "you are speaking to the finest pirate and privateer to ever sail these seas." He flashed a plastic smile. "I will find your signal."

Somewhat put off, Lucy stepped to the opposite side of the room. She gestured for Altair. With less resistance, Altair allowed himself to be moved. At this point he should have bought enough time for Desmond and the others to escape. If he could continue the charade for longer, then he may occupy them long enough for Desmond to arrive in America. The agents started to move Altair out of the room, past Shay. He stood with his arms cross and his wet hair pulled back, watching Altair knowingly. Perhaps for a day, Altair would be in the clear. If he spoke at all, he would need to mimic Desmond's American accent and dialect.

"Wait," Shay spoke. He stared back at Altair without emotion. _This is where my loyalty rests, _he conveyed. "That is Altair. He's missing his third finger."

* * *

"Fuck," Desmond swore, holding his splinted wrist.

"I said stop using it," Malik scolded, "You have one good arm for the moment."

Desmond gave up tying his shoes and sighed. They had paused for a break under the trees after four hours of walking, due to the rain. Connor developed a more raspy breath, though he tried his best to conceal it. At least Connor had caught a cold, Desmond was injured, and Altair was still missing. Haytham and Connor had now taken to hunting in the fields while Desmond rested. Ezio knelt to tie his shoe for him, shrugging off his discomfort. Malik sat cross-legged and irritable, filling the void Altair had left as the cur of the group. They were in no need of a cantankerous member, that much was true.

"I can still move my fingers- ow!"

Malik cuffed Desmond over the head, continuing, "And the arm won't heal any quicker with you tossing it about like that."

"Everything is almost impossible with one arm, if you can imagine that," grumbled Desmond.

A tumultuous fire blazed in Malik's eyes, drawing his mouth in a sneer. "I know well enough how to get by with one arm. It is not impossible. I was resurrected with two arms, yet I spent the majority of my life with one thanks to Altair. Now, pay attention," he untied his own shoe. Seamlessly, he tied it again with one hand.

Defeated, Desmond tipped his head back to doze against the tree. Ezio sat beside him, careful not to close his injured arm between them. A droplet of rain fell on Desmond's lips and slid down his scar. He only managed a little over half an hour of sleep before Haytham return with Connor. The hunting trip had been successful, yielding two deer and a brace of rabbits. Another stretch of time passed to prepare the meat. Desmond was grateful to be left to rest due to his broken arm, though knew fairly soon the exclusion would bother him. Connor had yet to express any apology, withholding further argument with his father. The damage was accidental and Desmond harbored no ill will toward Connor for it, but a simple _sorry_ felt due. When they began moving again, Desmond wordlessly drifted to the middle of the loose pack. Connor lagged near Malik, containing a coughing fit. According to Haytham, they were about forty-five miles from their destination in London. A safehouse awaited them there, supposedly with people loyal to Haytham. For the journey they would stay in the fields and forests, a pleasant alternative to the noisier street. Two short breaks and six hours later, the sun dipped below the horizon. Haytham showed enough concern to poll the group to rest briefly for the night, or continue the remaining nine hours. The general consensus was to sleep now, and rise early.

Desmond struggled to sleep on his back. He rolled in his sleep, aggravating his arm. Anxiety haunted him, showing him dreams of Altair drowned or harmed. The fifth and last time he woke in the night, he found himself sandwiched between Connor's leg and Ezio's shoulder. For the rest of the night he slept still and soundly. Malik rose at the crack of dawn, an inhuman ability as far as Desmond was concerned. Unfortunately the nights of late bedtimes and late rises were long over for him. He resumed walking without protest, however. With any luck, they would meet Altair at the safehouse as they had met up with Ezio in Rome. As they trekked farther into the urban environment, the streets became narrower. Haytham split the group in two in order to travel less conspicuously; Malik was to accompany Desmond with Connor, while Ezio led the way with Haytham. Malik, Desmond, and Connor would follow at a distance.

"If you are in danger," Haytham asserted, eyeing Connor, "_escape_, do not engage them in public."

"Assassins are blades in a crowd," said Malik, "I can assure you we know best, _Templar_."

It was the first time Malik had challenged Haytham since their journey began from Hastings. Desmond promptly walked away, drawing the others. "Come on, let's just go."

Haytham strode away, adding, "If you become lost, remember it is Queen Anne's Gate you are headed toward."

Ezio laid the black bag over his shoulder and followed. Desmond meandered through the crowds at a slower pace. On any other outing, he would have wanted to lag behind. He was wired today, and would have followed too closely if not for Malik pulling him back. Only an hour's walk separated him from their destination. To keep his mind busy, he tried talking to Malik as he would have to Altair.

"So, I wonder who the new guy is. Do you know him?"

"What are you saying now?" Malik fixed a flinty stare on him. _Jesus, he's worse than Altair._

Desmond scratched the back of his head through his hood. "I meant... so far I've had Cross, Shay, and some Vidic guy after me, but the guy on the ship back there wasn't any of them. He doesn't sound like them either."

"He sounded Welsh," said Connor.

"Welsh?" Desmond squinted.

"I met a few Welshmen in Boston. That is what he sounded like."

A woman walked into Desmond. He quickly apologized, knowing it was his fault. Neither were looking where they were going. She gave an embarrassed nod and hustled by. As time passed, Desmond noticed the distance increasing between his group and Haytham. Ahead, barely the heads of Haytham and Ezio were visible. Desmond halted at a crosswalk, looking around tensely. A prickling sensation drummed in his veins. He waited long enough to watch three cars pass. The rest of the road was empty as far as he could see past the corner. A gray car parked on the median, blocking his view up the street. He took a typical New Yorker's glance in either direction, and trotted out into the road. As he went, only one vehicle was coming round the corner at a safe speed. Malik immediately caught up to him, hissing, "You need to wait for the light."

"It's fine," Desmond muttered back. "People jaywalk all the time."

The turning van suddenly veered out of its lane. Malik shoved Desmond with all his might out of its path. Desmond practically bounced when he hit the asphalt. Tires screeched, ending with a solid _thud! _Tears blurred Desmond's vision, a bolt of pain lanced up from his wrist on impact. He staggered upright. People gathered toward Malik's body by the van, panicked. Desmond's own bewilderment grew as he saw Connor pushing through the crowd with his hidden blade out. A hand reached out, pointing a pistol to the sky. Two shots fired, terrifying the civilians. They scrambled away from the gunman in a screaming frenzy. As Connor lunged at the man, someone hauled Desmond to his feet. A gloved hand covered his mouth, tilting his head back with an icy blade on his throat. He stared wide-eyed into a grim countenance. A disfiguring scar marked the man's bearded face.

"Don't struggle," he rumbled. The command bound Desmond's bones in place.

A bloodied hand shot out, bringing a blade dangerously close to Desmond's face. A flurry of motion passed, ending with Desmond confusedly toppling to the ground and the unknown man stepping back. Disheveled Malik stood over him, his left arm limp in its darkening sleeve. "Get going!" he snapped, kicking Desmond sharply.

Behind him, Connor misplaced a blow. A coughing spasm faintly seized Connor's chest. His opponent grabbed his arm and roughly brought an elbow across his face. The gleeful smile under the man's black mustache unnerved Desmond. He saw an opening up the street to Ezio and Haytham, struggling with Shay and Cross. Desmond looked back to Malik. The scarred man was determined to get at Desmond, through Malik if he did not move. Desmond ignored the path of safety to Haytham. He darted past Malik, drawing the man away. The mustached man pointed his gun at Malik as he tried to stand between them.

"Ah, ah!" Desmond recognized the Welsh voice. "I wouldn't do that, now."

Connor had been brought to the ground at the Welshman's feet, spitting blood. Red droplets fell with increasing speed from Malik's sleeve. The scarred man barred Desmond from the road, saying, "Watch out for yourself, Roberts."

Ezio came charging down the road at full speed, pursued by Shay. Roberts ducked his hidden blade and spun away, still keeping his pistol pointed at Malik. Up the street, Desmond saw Haytham retreating with the black bag. A dull feeling of hopelessness nested in his gut. Had Haytham been planning to leave them? His earlier behavior had been so strange, Desmond resisted the truth. The scarred man drew his own gun, looking toward Ezio. Without thinking, Desmond blurted out, "Stop, or I'm dead!" He held his hidden blade to his neck.

Roberts raised a brow. "Berg, I don't think this is a negotiable situation, is it?"

"Be quiet," Berg commanded. Looking toward the street, he roared, "CROSS! Come back!"

A second later, Cross came jogging into sight. Angrily, he glared at Desmond. "Nice seeing you again, Dez," he spat.

Berg ignored Cross, casting Desmond a dark expression. "This is good. Let him choose." Speaking in a deceptively smooth voice, he said, "You care for your ancestor, do you not? At the least you may come willingly and see Altair unharmed."

Desmond exchanged a glance with Ezio. _We're buying time. _He hoped Haytham had gone for help and not abandoned them. "What about the others?" he nodded toward the Assassins.

"I leave them alone," Berg stated. "At best. You don't have much to bargain with, boy."

As he spoke, Desmond tried to accentuate the longest pauses. "I'm less stable than you think I am." Desmond scowled back at Cross. "According to him, I don't have a family to consider anymore. Didn't you burn that down?"

Berg sent a cold look to Cross. "No... No, your family was not harmed or found. You still have a chance at seeing them again in this lifetime. Speaking from experience, I wouldn't throw those odds away."

"What would you do with me?"

"Nothing."

Desmond extended the hidden blade, nicking the skin below his chin.

"Not anything cruel or unusual," Berg assured. He opened his palms empathetically. "You have all your facilities about you. Only be a willing participant, and you may live as comfortably as Shay or... Altair."

"I don't have much of a reason to believe you- I don't even know your name."

"Juhani Otso Berg. I think you've talked enough." Berg motioned to Cross, who stepped toward him.

Desmond pressed the blade farther. "How do you know I won't kill myself later?"

"We have methods of keeping you _safe_." Joining Cross, Berg neared Desmond. "Put the blade away before someone gets hurt."

A gunshot pierced the air. Desmond backpedaled, startled. To his relief, neither Malik nor Connor were downed, and Ezio was pulling him from the scene. Roberts clutched his shoulder, snarling. Over Ezio's shoulder yet again, Desmond wildly looked around, expecting to see Haytham. Thankfully, the Brit was there in the road, swooping in to help Connor. Yet there was another man, wearing his coat, leaping down from the hood of the parked car nearby. The man strangely had a sword on either hip, and a twisted smile on his lips. He holstered his pistol and drew both swords, simultaneously swinging at Shay and driving Berg back. Malik took advantage of the chaos to kick Cross squarely in the knee, bringing him down.

Roberts only had hateful eyes for the blonde man, shouting, "Edward Kenway, only by the devil's whim!"

A lively grin spread across Edward's face. "Glad to be back, mate."

* * *

***Faints* Oh lawd I rushed the ending there. I needed to get this out. Here you are. I'm dead. Whuhuhuhuhuhhhh...**

**TA DA.**

**I never planned to actually have Edward in here. I had to tweak some things and it added more time, and a few inconsistencies, but voila. I think it's worth it, I like having Edward in. It'll balance out Roberts- Roberts was a planned appearance. ****Thank Archangel507 for the Edward suggestion. ****And yes, Malik is going to lose that new arm. That was also planned, partly because... it just doesn't feel right to write him like this. I need my one-armed Malik back. Also was needed for some conflict, so that's that. Bwahaha. **

**It's ending soon! For me anyway. As said before, I'll leave it open-ended for anyone who wants to continue it, or if I decide to come back to it some time. It could go on forever. I'd like to start other things.**


	17. Bad Idea

**Man, I can think of a dozen ways the Edward reveal could have gone better, but honestly, it needed to be done all in a blaze of glory. That was the simplest way to do it. And I have a hell of a time with transitions.**

**Jebus, where does the time go...**

**Well, that was unexpected. I will say that I started to lose interest when I realized, dang, this is going to end soon.**

**So I decided on another plot point that continues this story line further. The ending I originally had in mind will not be the end of the entire plot now.**

* * *

_Minutes earlier_

Haytham vaulted over a stone wall. He landed heavily on the pathway to a broad front door. The manor was in pristine condition, just as he had desired. Throughout the previous years it had undergone renovations and become the center for Assassin meetings in London. To Haytham it still upheld an atmosphere of home; his old childhood house. It was also the place of death and burial, for his father. He had grappled with the idea of resurrecting Edward, whether it would do good or bad. Of course Edward would be a benefit to the Assassins; but to the Templars- to _him_? He did not know how Edward would react to his allegiance or past behavior. For all Haytham knew, Edward may treat him as another foe rather than his son. The man had not lived long enough to see Haytham grow into adulthood.

There were only selfish reasons against it.

"Miss Scott-Myer!" he called hurriedly.

Before he struck the door, it swung open. A fit young woman stood on the threshold, a hand on her hip. "Kenway!" she said, amused, "Gotten yourself in a bit of trouble?"

"Yes, yes, I know," he delicately pushed past her. "Never mind what I said about-"

Scott-Myer gestured grandiosely to the drawing room. She trotted to the far end and swept aside a velvet tablecloth. Under the long mahogany table rested an ebony casket. Engravings of a particular ship marked the sides. The triangular symbol of the Assassin's Creed stood out on the lid. Scott-Myer smiled impishly at Haytham. "If you weren't going to raise him, I very well would."

He remembered informing her to have the casket unearthed and stored safely away from its original location. Her, the current owner of the manor and descendent of his half-sister Jennifer Scott. Of course she would have a different opinion on the matter.

* * *

Desmond's feet were numb by the time Malik stopped running. He would have kept running, Desmond thought, if not for the obvious blood loss. They had escaped the melee for the moment, only while the mile radius around the incident still unfolded in chaos. People were fleeing, which was a good thing as far as Desmond knew- no person should ever suffer on his account. Looking at Malik's bleeding arm, he thought of himself as a plague of misfortune on others. No one should suffer _him_, specifically.

Ezio thumped Desmond's shoulder in congratulations. "That was good, you stalled! Edward is fighting with the strength of ten men there."

"Malik..." Desmond gazed at the trail of blood spotting the sidewalk.

"It is not the first time," said Malik. He gritted his teeth. "I carried the Apple to the Levantine brotherhood like this."

Haytham was ahead of them, the safehouse one street across. Desmond followed Ezio as they began running again. "Why is Haytham standing in the doorway?" he scowled. "We're just going to be cornered like this!"

Malik stumbled past Haytham first, sliding across the birch wall. A bright red streak of blood painted the wood beside him.

Desmond directed his words at Haytham next, "We won't be able to escape from-"

Haytham pulled him into the house, explaining, "This is where we make a stand."

In the street, Edward came into view. A virile glee shone on the man's face. Berg and Cross dogged him from either side without success. Edward maintained the fray single-handed. Cold concentration traced Berg's features. The tempered, ancient anger was still there, though it was not as disturbing as that icy glare. Cross was plain pissed; Berg was like a shark, almost soulless in his rage. Desmond wondered if the man was a normal human, one not raised or changed by Pieces of Eden.

Haytham called to the staircase behind Desmond, "Miss Scott-Myer!"

Confused, Desmond bumped into Ezio. He craned his neck to look up at the banister. A woman labored on the top floor, doubled over. Something screeched across the floorboards as she moved toward the stairs. Haytham jostled Ezio and Desmond out of the doorway. Malik gave a venomous look at anyone near him, dragging himself out of the way without complaint. Desmond stared at the object upstairs as the woman centered it.

"A fucking cannon?" he exclaimed in disbelief.

_BANG! _

The world became a shrill, ringing haze. Desmond held his ears, hoping to God he would not feel blood between his fingers. A wide hole gaped in the street. Sparks flew from a downed powerline. Berg and Cross must have moved away from the blast, out of sight. Stone dust circled the buildings; the fine, gritty mist irritated Desmond's lungs. Thankfully, Haytham closed the door. Desmond gathered himself upright. To his dismay, the first thing he could hear was Malik's pained breathing. Haytham stood unharmed in the foyer, Ezio rose with a wince. The woman beyond them stood akimbo, a streak of black marring her slender fingers.

"Going through the front door, I say!" she said, shaking her head. "I had thought you would come in through the window _like an Assassin._" She added the last word tersely.

Haytham narrowed his eyes at her. His lips tightened to a thin line, no doubt holding his tongue.

Edward entered the hallway above, approaching Scott-Myer. With a swinging stride he gazed around in wonderment. "Jaysus," he murmured. As he passed his hand over the rail, chips of paint rubbed off on his hand. "It's real."

"Isn't he...?" Ezio began, looking at Haytham.

"He's only been alive mere minutes," he whispered.

"Jenny..." Edward spoke, gazing at the woman with a mixture of confusion, relief, and fear.

She smiled, taking his hand reassuringly. "Not your sister, I'm afraid- her granddaughter of several generations, Jen Scott-Myer."

Connor emerged out of the back room. A thin sheet of sweat clung to his pale face. "What are you doing?" he coughed.

"Go sit down," commanded Haytham.

Drawing himself upright, Connor refused. "I do not take orders from you!"

"Malik, let me stop the bleeding-" Ezio reached for Malik.

"Get off!" Malik growled like a wounded animal.

Sirens whined outside, possibly an ambulance. Desmond pressed his fists against his pounding skull. Ears ringing, he howled, "ALRIGHT! Everyone!"

They all paused, staring at Desmond. He licked his cracked lips, raising his hands. "Chill the _fuck _out."

Gradually, they organized themselves with quieted squabbles. Desmond stood back and watched through glazed, half-lidded eyes.

"I do not need help," said Malik. His limp arm looked like a bloody, raw sausage at this point, unnaturally bunching with his bloody sleeve in his grip. "Only give me a fire and a blade."

Edward, still disoriented, peered down at Malik with concern. "By God, man, you need a doctor."

"Let him be," Haytham said, waving a hand dismissively.

"I don't care one wit!" Jen snapped. She assertively planted a foot high atop the cannon to yell down at him, "You're painting my hallway red! Move or give it an even coat!"

Malik grudgingly relented. He staggered from the hallway with Ezio at his side. Icy goosebumps tracked up Desmond's arms. The wall he leaned against felt frigid and clammy, and he realized that was the feel of his own skin on the dry wood. Rusting crimson showed where Malik had almost collapsed in the hallway not far from where Desmond rested. Bile rose to Desmond's tongue. Swallowing bitterly, he turned away from the stain. Jen was trying to explain to Edward where, and when, he was.

"I remember little," said Edward, hollow. His brow lowered darkly in concentration. "I... My son!" He quickly looked up at Jen. "Do you know what became of my son?"

Haytham tried to catch Jen's attention, making a rapid, small cutting motion at his throat as he mouthed, _No, d__on't!_

"Why, he's right there!" she pointed gleefully to Haytham. "Haytham was resurrected, same as you, only much earlier."

Connor practically lit up with amazement. "My grandfather?" he blurted out.

Haytham brought a hand to his face, sighing, "Yes..."

"Jaysus..." Edward's knuckles showed a ghostly white on the rail. A drained smile lined his features. "Grown as a man! I had this damned feeling, like you'd died when I had."

"You could say that," Haytham breathed, almost too low for Desmond to hear. "I lived," his eyes drifted to Connor, "for a fair while longer."

"How did you get him outside so soon," Desmond wondered aloud, "if you just raised him?"

Haytham spoke grimly, "He died fighting."

Edward laughed, easing their tension. "I come back to the world kickin' with a hold on me like the devil, and the first thing I have is Jenny-ah, Jen-in my face telling me Roberts is here! Aye, Roberts..." he struck the banister with the heel of his palm. "I remember Roberts clear as day."

"Not much of your last years, I bet?" asked Haytham.

Edward grinned, shaking his head. "Brooding lad as ever, Hayboy. I'll not talk of that now; who's this young buck, then?" He gestured toward Connor, then curiously glanced at Desmond. "Which is my grandson?"

"Both," Desmond said sheepishly. "Well- I'm not resurrected, I was born back in the eighties. I mean-" he grappled with the concept of a sensible timeline, "1983, but it's 2012 now like Jen told you."

"He's our present-day descendent," Haytham explained. Reluctantly gestured toward Connor, he added, "This is my son, also raised, Ra... Rahay..."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Connor spoke up. He brought a fist to his mouth as he began coughing.

"Yes, Radoonhaygon," Haytham finished. Connor glared; Haytham did a poor butchering of his apparent real name, though Desmond understood the difficulty. "We all refer to him as Connor."

Desmond's head ached. Finding their voices abrasive, he excused himself from the foyer. The next hallway was darker, the windows resting behind drawn blinds. Little spattering droplets of blood, still wet, settled on the floorboards ahead. Out of some morbid curiosity, he somberly followed the trail. The tiny, dark pools almost sparkled with the life drained with them. Desmond softly padded into an equally dim room, save for a shaft of light coming from a dusty window. The sparse light seemed only to contrast the room, making it appear all the darker and morose. Malik sat on the floor by a fireplace, stoking a growing flame. He had removed his belt and tightened it as a tourniquet around his forearm. Desmond saw his flat, black pupils for an instant and immediately averted his gaze. The serious, hard expression in Malik's eyes was more gruesome to behold than the malformed, bloody mess that was his arm.

"Sorry," he stated, as plain and painless as he could.

Malik remained impassive. "Do not think of it," he replied. "It was my decision this lifetime. I have kept a treasure safe both times, I have no regrets."

"You're gonna be alright?" mumbled Desmond, unnervingly focused on that horrid wound. _Fuck, that can't be an easy fix. _Trying to exert some trust, he remarked, "That's probably nothing to you, huh."

Malik straightened. Now Desmond could see the flat blade in his lap. Malik studied the knife, nodding slightly. "My arm is shattered, and a few ribs almost punctured my lung. I'll have to cut this arm off a second time."

A bottomless pit plunged where Desmond's stomach once was. "Seriously-" he burst, "Malik! You can't just- Let's get you to a doctor!"

Silver flashed by Desmond's face. He froze. Malik's blade firmly nestled in the doorframe beside his shoulder. Ezio rose from the corner to remove the knife.

"Now, it will not do to throw knives into our host's house," he remarked lightly.

Malik beckoned for the knife, stating flatly, "It was not meant to be. It is enough of a dangerous play against fate to be given a second life, Desmond, I am not concerned." Shrugging with his good shoulder, he smirked, "By your medical standards, I should have died in my day with such a procedure. I doubt I will die here in this house with a clean blade and friends when I have already survived the dusty healer's tent surrounded by sick men."

"It would be best to keep away from Connor, then," Ezio chuckled half-heartedly. He handed the knife back to Malik tersely, though not unkindly.

"Not even my own missing arm," grumbled Malik, carrying on mostly to himself. He faltered, slightly, as if remembering something. "Hard enough to find my head, I bet."

Desmond sat on a tan, old sofa by Ezio. A loose thread tickled his small finger. He was quiet for a moment, plucking at the fabric anxiously. "Malik."

The man grunted in reply.

"... How did you die?"

Malik held the blade in the fire, gazing at its white glow. The flames only cast a harsher light across Malik's face, creating shadowy hollows over his eyes like a skull's empty sockets. "I do not have the entire memory," he spoke slowly. "I know I was beheaded by traitors."

Desmond rested his elbows on his knees, weaving his fingers together. "Was it because of Altair?"

"Hm!" Malik smiled then, mockingly. "In those later years, I would die for Altair. I do not count it, though. I died accused of a crime against him, unable to see the corruption in our ranks. It is my own fault, not his."

_Altair..._

Desmond slipped into a shallow pool of his own darkness. No thought presented itself yet, only a bleary trance.

"You have done well, Desmond!" Ezio praised, clasping Desmond's shoulder. The Italian tried to smile, patting Desmond on his back. "You held the enemy using your quick thinking."

Desmond stared back, for a moment only sorrowful. No reply waited on his tongue. A desolate feeling pervaded his mind. He had held his life in his hands. Not everything he had said was mere improvisation. He did wonder what the point of it all was; what were the odds of his return home, to a broken family, and then what about the rest of his life? Was he always to be on the run, too weak to fight back? Altair had almost killed him before, and not without a logical reason. Desmond was the source of their struggle now, he and those damned Pieces. He had held his life in his hands, and felt... doubt. Perhaps if he did comply with Berg at least, he might be a trade for Altair, and allow the Assassins to squirrel away the other Pieces. The thought of defeating Abstergo was a tall, looming oppressor, pulling the strings. Desmond's string ended in a noose around his neck, and he could only feel it tightening.

He almost laughed at himself. Altair was captured, Malik almost bled out, Connor was sick, and this new man Edward had his own problems. _This isn't the time to pity myself._

_It's time to do something about it._

He flexed the blade on his wrist, adjusting it mindfully. The metal glided without fail, extending and retracting as he bid it.

This decision was a bad one, he knew that much- but it was better than his previous ones.

_Hopefully._

* * *

**Malik does not have regrets, but I do ;_;**


	18. A Favor

**I felt I needed to write SOMETHING after such a delay, and have still been grappling with where to take the story. So I decided to provide a lighter chapter (filler?), hoping to jump start the return to updates on this piece.**

**Happy extremely belated birthday, Archangel 3\\\**

**Apologies for inevitable inconsistencies! I would like to restate again that Desmond picks up a "bleeding effect" and other mental advantages after being around his resurrected ancestors, and the Pieces don't have all the powers they did in the original story. They are like the Pieces shown in Rogue, keeping corners of the earth in place. The Apples cannot control people, as Juno is not in this story. I hate Juno. Anyway, the Apples only allow some illusions, not full power to manipulate a large radius or someone to the point of killing themselves such as when Desmond, in the original, killed Vidic.**

* * *

_Swish-skitch._

_Swish-skitch._

Water sloshed over the bloodstained floor. Strong antiseptic scents filled the room, coating the iron smell of blood. Ezio scrubbed at the floor by Malik's bedside rhythmically. His light undershirt clung to his torso down the nape of his neck. Sweat collected between his shoulder blades though the task was not arduous. He wiped a hand on his trousers and cautiously reached toward Malik's pale face. The man laid as if dead, his jaw relaxed and eyes unmoving beneath damp lids darkened by exhaustion. A subtle tremor shivered over Malik's flesh as he saw the approaching hand. One twitch pulled his lips into a snarl. With an apologetic noise, Ezio pulled away. Cleaning the scene of the horrid amputation was the most anyone could do, short of battling to lend aid to the stubborn assassin. Untended embers smoldered in the fireplace. Malik heard the fire dying. He could almost feel the arm he did no longer have; not the one he had cut away in the night. What he had removed last night was someone else's limb, added to him upon resurrection. The arm he lost years- no, generations ago - tingled as if every vein and tendon cried out. When he closed his eyes he could see the infirmary surrounding him, its pale tent walls enveloping him like a diseased womb. The infirmary reeked of its miscarriages, holding putrefied wounds and newly deceased humans. Malik had surveyed the tent with hatred and disdain; he, a young and once fully capable Assassin, in such a place... it was a dishonor. To bring one so low was a crime, to take his younger brother away as well was a sin. Malik would hold the desecrator responsible until death gripped him, in that tent or decades beyond. After which, he was sure, he would haunt the man and his descendants for centuries to come. He had hoped to die before the man for this purpose. Let blood stain that miscreant's hands for all eternity, and for all to know of his selfish infamy.

Malik had lived. He survived, though barred from missions abroad. Life without the Brotherhood was obsolete. So he made his place behind the desks and among the parchments. What an ill temper did rile up from him upon sight of the mentioned villain, followed by the words, "_Safety and peace, Malik_." What safety, what peace could ever be brought to him? He shifted back to the present time- _present_, if such a thing could be said. This world was not his. The time of flying metal birds and roaring sheltered carts was not his era. If any Brotherhood did exist, it was one he did not know. Altair could be that same man he hated, or the man he respected; time could only tell. No one existed to hold ties with him. Even the civilization he had been born in had changed, belonging to a new generation. The only thing that mollified him was the blameless event of his morbid injury. He alone chose to sacrifice himself for Desmond. The Brotherhood was not only a group, but an existence; a loyalty to one's brothers, the will to remain together as one. Just as Malik's arm functioned as one part of a body, so he functioned alongside Desmond. Hands jerk upward to save the face from a blow. One assassin steps in front of the other in the same reaction.

As easily as he would decide what time to rise in the morning, he concluded he would survive this wound again. Once more, he would assist Altair. In this lifetime, it would be his descendant. So long as Malik had both legs and one good arm to use, he would see to Desmond's survival at the least. No harm would come to the novice at best. A small smile threatened to break through Malik's stern frown; Desmond was a young Altair with none of the arrogance and selfishness. With luck, he would be crafted into an excellent assassin. If only they could keep him alive until then.

* * *

Desmond padded across the antique wood floor. As if reaching through a haze, he clawed at the refrigerator handle. Sunlight burned his pupils through a gritty crack between his eyelids. The guest rooms had not been too well dusted, or perhaps the tub of lard Jen called a cat was aggravating Desmond's allergies. He tasted the film on his teeth as he worked to open a juice container. A fuzzy cat hair took hold of his tongue. _It's the damn cat, _he concluded.

He slid his gaze over the kitchen. Connor sat by the counter, a bowl of soup and a plate of toast by his right elbow while the aforementioned lint-gristle cat rested under his other arm. The cat stared back at Desmond and licked its nose knowingly, emitting a raspy, warbling _meehh-yuh._

Forcing past the itch in his throat, Desmond said, "Connor, can you put that thing- _Jesus Christ!_"

A heavy weight slammed into his back. Cat hair stuck to his face as soon as he met the floorboards. Above him, he heard a short laugh. "Keep on your toes, lad!" Edward called down to him.

Desmond's wrist throbbed; it had not healed yet from when Connor tackled him. Though he dismissed a splint now, he still held it gingerly. Concealing his pain, he grabbed hold of a low cabinet to rise. Edward disappeared as quickly with the jug of juice in hand. The cabinet inadvertently opened, revealing an odd sight. Desmond froze, squinting. Somehow cramped and curled into the small area, not much bigger than a child, was Haytham. His hat sat comically askew and tipped over his nose to avoid pressing it against the walls. With his knees an inch from his face, he set a teacup on its saucer under his chin delicately.

"Connor, a slice of toast if you will," he spoke.

In as much disbelief as Desmond, Connor remarked incredulously, "What are you doing?"

Haytham cradled the teacup against his chest to glare at Connor. "Waiting for a crisp square of bread. Have you never seen such a thing, this toast?"

Connor handed Desmond a slice, promptly turning away. As Haytham accepted it, he studied the texture.

"Soggy at the leftmost edge," he stated critically.

Planting a foot on the cabinet door, Connor forcefully shut it. Desmond looked up at Connor quizzically.

"Edward is training you and him," he replied bitterly. Seeing Connor's lingering pallor, Desmond inferred that Edward had refused to mentor a sick man.

"You would do well," advised Haytham, "to eat your breakfast in one of the cabinets with pickled eel. He stays away from eel."

"Hiding like a coward!" Connor hissed.

Porcelain clinked lightly. "Strategy."

Standing, Desmond brushed off the front of his shirt. He dragged himself to leave in search of the juice. Muttering a less than enthusiastic remark, he shuffled past the fridge.

Haytham's voice drifted to his ears from the recesses of the cupboard: "In the potted plants."

A second later, Edward sprung from the ficus. Desmond found himself trapped against the doorframe. Edward peered at Desmond interestingly, his blue eyes studying him from under a perplexed brow. The large cap of the juice container floated up into Desmond's vision. Edward took a swig from the cap as if it were a shot glass. Pointing a thick finger from the cap, he stated, "You've got a bit of work ahead of you if you hope to survive."

Desmond looked past Edward. At the window stood Jen, dispassionately glaring between the drapes. From Desmond's position a yellow object was visible outside; another bio-terrorism scare, to reasonably evacuate the public. Desmond suspected Abstergo must have a good reason to be waiting outside the Kenway manor, and clearing the area. Did they expect a full scale brawl, or had they bought Desmond's threat of self-harm?

Quietly, Desmond murmured, "I need to ask you something- a favor."


End file.
